REPENTED  AT  LEISURE. 


By  BERTHA  M.  CLAY. 

Author  of  "  Dora  Thome?    "  Her  Mother's  Sin,"    Beyond 
Pardon?  Etc.,  Etc, 


CHICAGO   AND   NEW  YORK: 

BELFORD,  CLARKE   &   COMPANY, 

PUBLISHERS. 


TROWS 

PRINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  COMPANY, 
NEW  YORK. 


REPENTED  AT  LEISURE.         £ 


CHAPTER  I. 

ETHEL  GORDON  sat  in  her  own  room  alone,  and  no 
room  ever  gave  a  more  correct  idea  as  to  its  owner's  mind 
than  did  this.  The  profusion  of  flowers,  all  beautifully 
arranged,  yielding  sweet  perfume,  the  choice  books,  pic- 
tures, copies  of  world-renowned  works  of  art,  and  vases 
and  ornaments  of  rare  design,  were  all  indications  of 
highest  refinement  and  cultivation. 

Ethel  Gordon  was  not  unworthy  of  her  surroundings. 
She  gave  promise  of  a  magnificent  womanhood ;  her  slen- 
der, girlish  figure  was  admirably  graceful,  her  attitude  per- 
fection ;  every  unstudied  pose  was  statuesque.  Her  face 
was  beautiful  with  a  bright  beauty  of  its  own  ;  rich  brown 
hair  fell  on  the  graceful  neck ;  her  eyes  were  of  the  rare 
hue  of  a  purple  heartsease,  a  golden  light  shining  in  their 
liquid  depths,  a  light  that  deepened  with  every  phase  of  feel- 
ing, that  flashed  with  scorn,  or  gleamed  with  tenderness,  or 
shone  with  pride.  Beautiful  eyes  they  were,  for  one  glance 
of  which  men  would  have  fought  in  olden  days  and  died ; 
the  brows  were  straight,  like  those  of  a  Grecian  goddess — 
brows  of  ideal  loveliness.  The  ancient  Greeks  gave  such 
a  mouth  as  hers  to  Venus,  for  it  was  one  of  singular  beauty 
the  upper  lip  being  short,  the  lower  one  full  and  curved, 
\vhile  the  dimpled  chin  was  faultless. 

There  was  no  flaw  in  her  beauty  from  the  crown  of  her 

f~}  /^  £  ^f^i  "1  r~~ 

961745 


'£  *  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE 

'fathead  tb  hef  tifty'ieet.  Her  small,  white  hands  had  a 
delicate  rose  tint ;  her  arm  was  round  and  perfect  in  con- 
tour. Yet  she  did  not  possess  the  cold,  perfect,  regular 
beauty  of  a  woman  without  fault.  There  was  pride  and, 
perhaps,  some  little  degree  of  temper  in  the  bright  eyes, 
just  as  there  was  something  of  independence  and  hauteur 
in  the  curved  lips. 

The  sunbeams  were  falling  on  her,  and  the  sweet  south 
wind,  bearing  the  scent  of  hawthorn  and  lilac,  was  fanning 
her  brow ;  but  she  was  not  looking  well  pleased.  She 
was  standing  at  an  open  window,  watching  the  slanting  sun- 
beams, her  little  white  fingers  lapping  impatiently  on  the 
window  frame. 

"  I  am  a  Gordon,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  I  like  my 
own  way,  and  I  will  not  submit  to  it !  " 

At  that  moment  a  footman  came  to  say  that  Sir  Leo- 
nard Gordon  awaited  his  daughter  in  the  library. 

"I  will  be  there  directly,"  said  Ethel,  carelessly — it 
was  one  of  her  principles  never  to  seem  in  haste.  She 
remained  for  a  few  minutes  longer  at  the  window  just  to 
gratify  her  spirit  of  independence,  and  then  she  walked 
slowly  to  the  library,  where  Sir  Leonard  awaited  her. 

Sir  Leonard  Gordon  resembled  his  daughter  in  several 
respects — he  had  the  same  clear-cut,  regular  features,  the 
same  waving  rich  brown  hair ;  but  his  face,  handsome 
though  it  was,  bore  marks  of  deep  care  and  thought,  while 
the  hair  was  streaked  with  gray.  He  was  a  tall,  aristocra- 
tic-looking man,  with  an  impressive  air  of  dignity  and  com- 
mand. 

"  Come  in,  Ethel,"  he  said,  in  a  deep,  musical  voice. 
"  I  want  to  speak  to  you  very  particularly." 

A  musical  voice  and  a  winsome  smile  were  the  heir- 
looms of  the  Gordons.  Their  features  might  and  did  vary 
— some  were  of  the  dark,  proud  Norman,  others  of  the  fair, 
calm  Anglo-Saxon  type— but  all  alike  had  a  voice  of  soft- 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  5 

est  music,  and  a  smile  that  would  have  melted  a  heart  of 
stone.  There  had  been  fauhful  Gordons,  and  false  Gor- 
dons— Gordons  true  as  steel,  and  treacherous  as  the  men 
who  betrayed  their  young  queen  ;  but  every  Gordon  could 
be  recognized  by  these  two  gifts. 

"  Sit  down,  Ethel,"  said  Sir  Leonard.  "  I  have  much 
to  say,  and  you  will  be  tired." 

But  the  spirit  of  independence  and  contradiction 
seemed  to  be  strong  in  his  beautiful  daughter  this  May 
morning. 

"I  prefer  to  stand,  papa,"  she  replied  ;  and  Miss  Gor- 
don swept  across  the  room,  with  a  haughty  bearing  not 
lost  upon  Sir  Leonard.  He  smiled  to  himself,  and  it  was 
just  as  well  that  Ethel  did  not  see  that  smile. 

"  I  have  sent  for  you,  Ethel,"  he  said,  "  that  we  may 
come  to  some  amicable  arrangement  of  our  difficulties.  I 
hope  you  have  come  prepared  to  be  just  and  reasonable." 

"  If  you  are  determined  to  have  your  own  way,  papa, 
it  is  useless  my  arguing  with  you,"  returned  Ethel,  proudly, 

"  I  am  afraid,  my  dear,  that  we  Gordons  are  too  fond 
of  our  own  way  ;  but  I  think  you  and  I  can  arrange  our 
difficulties  without  coming  into  collision.  It  is  useless  to 
talk  to  a  Gordon  of  submission ;  but,  if  I  can  convince 
your  judgment,  you  will  obey  me,  I  hope." 

"  I  am  not  very  clever  at  obedience,  I  fear,"  said  Miss 
Gordon. 

"  No,  you  have  been  spoiled,  Ethel,  ever  since  you 
were  a  child  ;  and,  now  that  you  are  seventeen,  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  contend  against  the  effects  of  that  spoiling.  See, 
my  dear,"  and  Sir  Leonard  held  out  an  open  letter  to  his 
daughter  ;  "  I  received  this  by  the  morning's  post  from  the 
Austrian  Embassador,  and  I  must  send  in  my  reply  to- 
night." 

She  took  the  letter,  read  it  carefully,  and  then  laid  it 
on  the  table. 


6  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  It  is  complimentary,"  she  said ;  "  and  he  speaks  of 
the  position  as  a  lucrative  one." 

"  It  is  so  now,  Ethel.  You  are  old  enough  to  under- 
derstand  some  of  the  cares  that  have  turned  my  hair  white, 
and  have  lined  my  face  with  marks  that  nothing  will 
efface." 

Her  beautiful  face  softened  for  a  few  moments,  and  the 
proud  eyes  grew  dim  with  tears. 

"  Although,"  he  continued,  "  I  am  the  representative 
of  one  of  the  oldest  families  in  England,  owning  Fountayne 
Hall  in  England  and  Heatherbrae  in  Scotland,  yet  I  am  a 
poor  man.  I  never  know  the  luxury  of  having  a  sovereign 
to  spare.  My  father,  who  succeeded  to  a  rich  inheritance, 
spent  all  he  could.  He  gambled,  played,  bet  heavily, 
bought  extravagantly — he  ruined  himself,  Ethel,  and  con- 
sequently ruined  me.  When  I  succeeded  to  Fountayne, 
it  was  one  of  the  poorest  estates  in  England.  Your  mother, 
Lady  Angela,  brought  with  her  a  good  fortune,  and  that 
helped  me — indeed,  but  for  that  I  must  have  sold  the  Hall. 
Your  mother's  fortune  cleared  off  the  heavy  mortgages  ; 
still,  it  has  been  difficult  to  live.  Now,  this  offer  of  the 
Austrian  Embassador  comes  in  the  very  hour  of  need.  I 
wanted  a  few  thousand  pounds ;  and,  if  I  go,  they  will  be 
mine." 

"It  is  an  inducement,  certainly,"  she  said,  gravely. 

"  A  very  great  inducement,"  he  agreed.  "  For  the 
first  time  in  my  life,  I  shall  be  quite  at  ease  as  to  money 
matters — Heaven  grant  you  may  never  know  what  that 
implies,  Ethel — and  the  advantages  in  other  ways  will  be 
great. 

"  Why  not  then  decide  at  once  upon  accepting  the 
offer,  papa  ?  " 

"  Because  the  decision  rests  with  you.  I  cannot  leave 
home  for  two  years,  and  leave  you  alone,  unprotected,  un* 
cared  for — it  is  out  of  the  question." 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  >j 

"  There  never  was  a  Gordon  yet,  incapable  of  taking 
care  of  himself  or  herself,"  said  the  girl,  proudly. 

Sir  Leonard  laughed  and  shook  his  head. 

"  You  are  only  just  seventeen,  and  that  is  no  age  for 
ripe  judgment.  You  are  too  young  to  be  left  in  charge  of 
a  large  house  like  Fountayne.  You  have  not  had  experi- 
ence enough." 

She  went  up  to  him  and  laid  both  hands  on  his  should- 
ers, gazing  straight  into  his  face. 

"  Now,  papa,  look  at  me  ;  tell  me  the  truth.  Who 
really  governs  the  house  now  ?  " 

Sir  Leonard's  face  flushed  ;  he  laughed  uneasily. 

"  If  you  insist  upon  the  truth,  there  can  be  no  doubt, 
Ethel,  that  you  rule  the  house  and  every  one  in  it ;  but  you 
must  remember  that  I  am  here  to  take  all  responsibility 
from  you." 

"  That  which  I  am  old  enough  to  do  in  your  presence 
I  can  surely  do  in  your  absence,"  she  said,  proudly. 

"  That  is  the  very  point  on  which  we  disagree,"  returned 
Sir  Leonard  ;  "  and  on  that  point  my  decision  rests.  We 
will  argue  the  matter  fairly,  Ethel,  and  you  will  see  that  I 
am  right.  In  the  eves  of  the  world."  continued  Sir  Leo- 

O  j  ' 

nard,  '*  I  should  be  greatly  to  blame  if  I  went  away  leav- 
ing a  girl  so  young  as  you,  Ethel,  to  manage  a  large  house 
—above  all,  if  I  left  you  without  a  chaperon  of  any  kind." 

"  A  chaperon  ! "  repeated  his  daughter,  contemptu- 
ously. "  Of  what  possible  use  would  a  chaperon  be  to 
me?" 

"  She  would  keep  you  out  of  all  danger  ;  young  girls 
are  easily  imposed  upon.  She  would  teach  you  to  fulfil 
the  duties  of  your  station  in  a  proper  manner.  In  fact, 
Ethel,  it  is  useless  to  argue  the  question  ;  you  cannot 
possibly  do  without  one.  You  would  lose  caste  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world,  and  would  be  certain  to  get  into  mis- 
chief." 


g  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

11  If  I  ever  forget  myself  so  far  as  to  feel  any  inclina- 
tion for  mischief,  no  amount  of  chaperonage  would  keep 
me  from  it,"  said  Miss  Gordon,  proudly.  "  I  am  too  old 
to  be  taught  to  obey  a  stranger." 

"  My  dearest  Ethel,  how  proud  you  are !  I  fear  that 
some  great  sorrow — some  great  and  terrible  pain — will  be 
your  portion — will  be  sent  to  break  the  pride,  the  unbend- 
ing spirit  that  nothing  seems  to  move." 

"  All  the  Gordons  are  proud,  papa.  Why  blame  me 
for  having  one  of  the  characteristics  of  my  race  ? " 

"  Submissiveness  and  gentleness,  Ethel,  form  a  wo- 
man's diadem." 

"  A  very  poor  one  ! "  objected  Ethel.  "  Now,  papa, 
be  reasonable.  Give  up  this  absurd  notion  of  a  chaperon  ; 
go  to  Austria — that  is  a  magnificent  offer — one  you  should 
not  refuse.  Leave  me  here  at  Fountayne  ;  I  shall  have  a 
staid  old  housekeeper  and  faithful  servants  ;  what  more 
can  I  need  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Ethel,  what  would  the  world  say  if  I  left  a 
girl  of  seventeen  alone  in  that  fashion  ? " 

"  I  do  not  care  for  the  world,"  retorted  the  girl.  "  I 
care  about  pleasing  myself." 

"  You  cannot  run  counter  to  the  opinion  of  the  world, 
Ethel ;  at  your  age  the  idea  is  absurd.  You  must  submit 
to  the  inexorable  laws  of  custom  and  etiquette." 

Sir  Leonard  spoke  angrily,  with  flushed  face  and  dark- 
ening eyes.  Both  father  and  daughter  were  growing  terri- 
bly earnest. 

"  What  if  I  refuse  to  have  anything  to  do  with  a  chap- 
eron ?  Papa,  if  I  refuse  to  obey  one,  what  then  ?  "  asked 
Ethel. 

"  In  that  case  I  should  certainly  refuse  the  offer,"  said 
Sir  Leonard.  "  I  should  write  to  the  embassador  and 
decline.  But  Ethel,  you  will  surely  take  my  disappointed, 
blighted  life  into  consideration  before  you  do  that  ? " 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  g 

The  girl  was  silent  for  some  minutes ;  then,  turning  to 
him  her  beautiful  face  all  flushed  and  eager,  she  said, 
persuasively  : 

"  Let  me  make  one  more  appeal  to  you  papa.  Go  to 
Austria,  and  leave  me  here.  I  will  be  prudence  itself ; 
I  will  surpass  discretion  in  all  I  do  or  say ;  I  will  promise 
you  that  no  stranger  shall  ever  cross  the  threshold ;  I  will 
obey  every  law  you  may  lay  down  for  me,  if  you  will  con- 
sent to  leave  me  free  and  unfettered/' 

"  My  dear  Ethel,  I  cannot  do  it.  You  do  not  know 
what  you  ask.  A  girl  of  seventeen,  left  in  such  a  position, 
would  quite  lose  caste.  If  you  were  twenty,  or  even  thirty, 
I  would  not  do  it." 

"  You  refuse,  then  ?  "  she  said,  quietly. 

Sir  Leonard  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair ;  he  did  not 
like,  when  looking  on  that  beautiful  face,  to  refuse  a 
prayer. 

"  I  must  do  so  for  your  own  sake  as  well  as  mine.  I 
cannot  leave  you  alone,  Ethel,  and  I  will  not." 

She  was  silent  for  some  minutes,  the  flush  dying  from 
her  face,  and  the  light  deepening  in  her  eyes.  A  struggle 
was  going  on  between  her  pride  and  her  love  for  Sir  Leo- 
nard ;  then  she  turned  to  him  quite  calmly. 

"  Will  you  tell  me,  then,  what  you  purpose  doing, 
papa  ? " 

Sir  Leonard  looked  slightly  confused.  Something  in 
the  beautiful  face  and  proud  eyes  seemed  to  agitate  him. 

"  I  may  as  well — nay,  I  had  far  better  speak  plainly  to 
you,  Ethel.  The  truth  is  that  the  sooner  you  accustom 
yourself  to  a  chaperon  the  better  it  will  be  for  you ;  for  I 
am  tired  of  a  single  life,  and  I  think  of  marrying  again." 

The  slender  figure  was  drawn  to  its  full  height,  the 
beautiful  face  was  flushed  with  the  deepest  crimson,  the 
proud  lips  wore  their  most  scornful  curve. 


,  0  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  You  think  of  marrying  again,  papa  !  Pray  may  I  ask 
why  ?  " 

"  That  is  hardly  a  respectful  question,  Ethel  I  have 
told  you  my  reason.  I  am  tired  of  a  single  life,  and  I 
have  met  with  a  lady  who  would  make  me,  I  am  sure,  a 
most  excellent  wife  ? " 

"  Am  I  permitted  to  ask  who  the  lady  is  ?  "  asked  Miss 
Gordon. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear.  I  met  Miss  Digby  last  year  at 
the  Trexhams' — I  met  her  again  at  the  Davencourts' ;  and 
if  I  must  speak  plainly,  I  fell  in  love  with  her." 

The  scorn  on  the  lovely  face  deepened. 

"  Miss  Digby  has  money,  I  believe  ? "  she  interro- 
gated. 

u  Yes,"  replied  Sir  Leonard,  "  she  has  money — money 
made  by  her  father  in  trade.  She  lays  no  claim  to  high 
birth  or  great  connections,  but,  for  all  that,  she  is  a  lady 
of  great  accomplishments  and  refinement." 

"  You  would  choose  a  tradesman's  daughter  to  take  my 
mother's  place  ?  "  asked  Ethel,  with  quivering  lips. 

"  You  must  speak  respectfully  of  the  lady  I  hope  to 
make  my  wife,"  returned  Sir  Leonard,  sternly. 

"  Do  you  expect  me,  Lady  Angela's  daughter,  one  of 
the  Gordons  of  Fountayne,  to  obey  such  a  person  ? "  in- 
quired Ethe4,  proudly. 

"  I  expect  you  to  obey  me.  I  also  am  a  Gordon  of 
Fountayne,  and  my  will  is  stronger  than  yours.  I  have 
asked  Miss  Digby  to  be  my  life,  and  she  has  consented." 

A  low  cry  escaped  EthePs  lips,  but  she  made  no  com- 
ment. Sir  Leonard  continued, — 

"  The  same  obstacles  that  prevented  my  taking  you  to 
Austria  forbid  me  to  take  a  wife  there  ;  therefore,  I  have 
arranged  with  Miss  Digby  to  postpone  our  marriage  until 
my  return.  You  understand  that,  Ethel  ?  " 

4<  Yes,  I  understand  perfectly,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  !  t 

Sir  Leonard  looked  relieved.  He  felt  that  the  worst 
part  of  the  revelation  was  over. 

"  Miss  Digby,  to  oblige  me,  has  consented  to  another 
arrangement,"  Sir  Leonard  resumed.  "  Perhaps  that  will 
not  please  you.  She  is  going  to  spend  a  few  weeks,  per- 
haps months,  at  St.  Ina's  Bay,  She  has  invited  you  to  go 
with  her,  and  I  should  like  it  to  be  so.  Then  she  has  prom- 
ised to  remain  with  you  at  Fountayne  until  I  return. " 

The  girl's  face  grew  white  with  anger,  her  eyes  seemed 
to  flash  fire. 

"  I  will  not  submit  to  such  an  arrangement/'  she  said, 
haughtily.  "  You  are  treating  me  as  a  child.  Papa,  you 
forget  that  I  am  a  woman." 

Sir  Leonard  laughed. 

"  Not  quite,  Ethel.  You  are  seventeen,  and  I  admit 
that  you  are  tall  for  your  age  ;  but  girls  of  seventeen  are 
not  woman." 

"  After  being  mistress  of  Fountayne  for  so  long,  do 
you  think,  papa,  I  can  submit  to  the  rule  of  a  stranger  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  have  sense  enough  to  see  that  you  can 
only  submit,"  said  Sir  Leonard.  "  I  love  Miss  Digby  ; 
but  it  is  quite  as  much  for  your  sake  as  for  my  own  that  I 
wish  to  marry." 

"  Why  for  my  sake  ?  "  asked  Ethel,  briefly. 

"  My  dear  child,  you  will  ask  questions  the  answers  to 
which  simply  displease  you.  Because  you  have  grave 
faults,  and  requite  the  gentle  training  and  the  wise  guid- 
ance of  a  good  woman." 

"  What  are  my  faults,  papa  ?  You  seem  to  have  found 
them  out  all  at  once." 

"  You  are  proud,  Ethei — proud,  unbending,  independ- 
ent. You  have  no  self-discipline,  no  self-control." 

"  Those  are  all  Gordon  characteristics,"  she  objected — 
"  not  faults." 

"  They  are  both,"  returned  Sir  Leonard,     "  You  must 


,2  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

do  battle  with  them  and  overcome  them,  or  you  will  never 
be  an  amiable  woman,  Ethel." 

"  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  wish  to  be  one,  papa. 
Amiable  people,  as  a  rule,  are  weak.  I  dislike  weakness. 
I  may  be  proud,  as  you  say  ;  but  I  never  said  a  false  word 
nor  did  a  mean  action." 

"  That  I  am  sure  of  ;  but,  Ethel,  I  have  spoiled  you. 
You  have  grown  up  to  have  your  own  way  entirely  ;  you 
have  no  idea  of  submission.  I  have  been  thinking  very 
much  of  it  lately.  I  have  read  the  words  of  some  wise  man 
that  great  pride  can  only  be  subdued  by  great  trouble,  and 
I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  my  EthePs  bright  face  shadowed 
with  care.  I  want  you  to  correct  this  pride  yourself  ;  to 
learn  submission  to  wise  and  gentle  guidance,  so  that  a 
woman's  greatest  ornament,  a  meek  and  gentle  spirit,  may 
be  yours." 

Ethel  laughed. 

"  You  make  me  think  myself  very  wicked,  papa.  When 
you  change  the  colors  of  a  flower,  turn  night  into  day, 
make  thistles  grow  on  rose-trees,  then  you  may  hope 
to  change  a  proud,  wilful  girl  into  a  meek,  submissive 
woman  ;  but  not  till  then." 

"  Take  care,  Ethel.  What  I  cannot  do,  a  mightier 
Hand  may  effect.  This  is  the  crisis  of  your  life.  Think 
well  before  you  decide  that  your  disposition  is  immu- 
table." 

If  either  father  or  daughter  could  have  seen  to  what 
this  was  to  lead,  they  would  have  prayed  that  the  May 
sunbeams  might  fall  on  her  dead  face,  rather  than  that 
she  should  suffer  what  was  in  store  for  her. 

Ethel  made  no  reply,  and  Sir  Leonard,  whose  relief  at 
having  unburdened  himself  of  his  communication  was 
great,  rose  from  his  chair. 

"  I  shall  drive  over  to  see  Lady  Davencourt  this  after- 
noon. You  had  better  go  with  me,  Ethel  ;  Miss  Digby  is 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  13 

staying  there,  and  I  should  like  to  introduce  you  to  her. 
I  shall  be  ready  at  two." 

And  then  Sir  Leonard  quitted  the  library,  and  his 
daughter  passed  through  the  open  glass-door  into  the  gar- 
den. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


CHAPTER  II. 

OUT  from  the  darkened  room  where  she  had  suffered 
the  keenest  torture  of  her  life,  out  in  the  beautiful  sun- 
shine, to  the  fair,  smiling  flowers,  to  the  sweet  singing 
birds,  went  Ethel  Gordon.  It  was  like  a  change  from 
some  dark  region  to  Paradise.  She  paused  and  drew  a 
breath  of  deep  satisfaction  at  finding  herself  alone  in  the 
sweet,  warm  sunshine.  There  was  a  gleam  of  purple  from 
the  lilac  trees,  a  sheen  of  gold  from  the  drooping  laburnum, 
a  glitter  of  white  from  the  fair  acacia  blossoms,  the  roses 
were  budding,  large  bushes  of  southern-wood  filled  the 
sweet,  warm  air  with  fragrance,  the  white  daphnes,  purple 
hyacinths,  and  mignonettes  were  all  in  flower,  sweet  lilies' 
of  the  valley  nestled  among  their  green  leaves.  Fountains 
rippled  among  the  flowers,  bright-winged  birds  flew  from 
tree  to  tree,  all  Nature  smiled ;  and  Ethel,  who  had  a 
poet's  soul,  and  a  keen,  passionate  love  for  all  that  was 
beautiful,  gave  a  deep  sigh  of  unutterable  content  that  the 
world  was  so  fair. 

"  I  love  the  lilies  best,"  she  thought,  as  she  picked  a 
few  sprays,  and  then  the  memory  of  all  she  had  just  heard 
came  over  her,  and  a  low,  passionate  cry  escaped  her  lips. 
"  I  shall  hate  her,"  she  thought,  "  and  the  Gordons,  who 
know  so  well  how  to  love,  know  how  to  hate." 

It  seemed  cruelly  hard  to  her.  Sir  Leonard  had  been 
content  with  her  love  and  her  sway  for  so  many  years ; 
now  a  stranger  must  come  and  take  both  from  her.  She 
had  been  proud  of  her  rule ;  she  was  so  frank  so  true, 
although  imperious,  so  generous,  so  noble  in  every  word 
and  deed,  that  the  servants  of  the  household,  the  tenants, 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  !5 

the  dependents  all  worshipped  her.  Miss  Gordon  could  do 
no  wrong — she  dispensed  rewards  and  punishments  with 
a  royal  hand  ;  no  one  had  ever  disputed  her  will  or  dis- 
obeyed her  commands.  She  had  reigned  absolutely  as  a 
queen,  and,  girl  though  she  was,  the  sense  of  power  had 
been  sweet  to  her.  She  had  enjoyed  the  exercise  of  it. 
If  any  one  wanted  a  favor  from  Sir  Leonard,  it  was 
through  Ethel  they  asked  it,  and  he  was  never  known  to 
refuse.  So  she  had  grown  up  gracious  and  beloved. 

"  Miss  Gordon  is  proud,"  people  said,  "  but  she  has  a 
heart  of  gold  ;  "  and  now  this  pleasant  rule,  this  absolute 
sovereignty,  this  influence  and  power,  were  to  be  taken 
from  her,  and  placed  in  the  hands  of  a  stranger.  How 
-was  she  to  bear  it? 

Tears  dimmed  the  bright  eyes.  She  stretched  out  her 
hands  as  though  she  would  fain  embrace  the  grand  old 
hall  and  the  picturesque  grounds. 

1  "  How  shall  I  bear  to  see  a  stranger  here  ?  "  she  mur- 
mured ;  and  on  that  bright  May  morning  no  warning  came 
to  her  that  she  would  have  far  greater  troubles  to  bear. 

The  Gordons  of  Fountayne  were,  as  Sir  Leonard  said, 
one  of  the  oldest  families  in  England.  They  were  a  hand- 
some race,  fair  of  presence,  winning  in  speech,  noble  in 
mind,  and  chivalrous  in  manner  ;  they  had  been  celebrated 
both  in  song  and  in  story.  Legends  and  stories  without 
number  were  told  of  their  fair  women  and  dauntless  men, 
but  they  had  never  been  famed  for  wealth.  Gold  had 
never  lasted  long  in  the  hands  of  a  Gordon  ;  still  they  had 
never  been  poor  until  Sir  Alexander  Gordon,  the  father  of 
Sir  Leonard,  took  to  gambling.  He  impoverished  his 
estate,  himself,  and  his  only  son  to  such  an  extent  that  it 
was  doubtful  whether  Sir  Leonard  would  be  able  to  keep 
up  the  position  of  the  family  or  not.  He,  however, 
married  an  heiress,  the  Lady  Angela  Lyle.  Her  fortune, 
large  as  it  was,  sufficed  to  pay  off  the  heavy  mortgages 


j5  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

only,  nothing  being  left  for  the  improvement  of  the  impov- 
erished estate,  so  that  Sir  Leonard  was,  despite  his  mar- 
riage, always  a  poor  man.  He  was  obliged  to  scheme  and 
contrive,  for  Lady  Angela  required  her  house  in  town,  her 
entertainments,  her  dinners,  balls,  jewels,  carriages,  and 
dress,  like  other  ladies  in  her  position,  and  Sir  Leonard 
could  not  refuse  her. 

"  She  brought  plenty  of  money  to  Fountayne,  and  she 
must  have  all  she  wants,"  he  was  in  the  habit  of  saying  to 
himself ;  so  that,  during  her  lifetime  even,  his  hair  grew 
grey,  and  deep  lines  came  upon  his  face,  all  caused  by 
money  cares. 

Then  Lady  Angela  died,  leaving  one  daughter,  Ethel ; 
and  this  daughter  became  the  pride,  the  pet,  the  play- 
thing, and  the  torment  of  her  father's  life. 

She  was  always  beautiful.  She  had  the  Gordon  face, 
the  bright,  winning  face  that  belonged  to  that  debonnair 
race.  She  had  the  quick,  impetuous  Gordon  temper,  the 
Gordon  pride.  She  had  all  the  virtues  and  many  of  the 
failings  that  characterized  her  race. 

Ethel  Gordon  had  the  faults  that  generally  characterize 
a  warm,  impetuous,  loving,  proud  nature,  and  those  faults 
had  been  fostered  in  her  from  the  hour  in  which  her  baby 
rule  had  begun  at  Fountayne.  She  was  imperious,  proud, 
with  the  quick  temper  that  belonged  to  the  Gordons.  Her 
face  would  flush,  her  eyes  flash  fire ;  she  would  express 
scorn,  contempt,  and  anger  in  a  moment ;  but  she  was 
quick  to  forget ;  she  never  thought  twice  of  a  wrong  com- 
mitted, and  those  who  had  borne  the  brunt  of  her  anger 
were  the  first  to  feel  the  charm  of  her  generous,  kindly 
manner.  She  was  quick  to  forgive  ;  if  she  hurt  any  one's 
feelings,  she  would  do  all  in  her  power  to  atone  for  it.  It 
was  not  wonderful  that  she  was  loved  ;  she  was  well  worth 
loving. 

She  was  the  very  light  of  Sir  Leonard's  eyes,  the  joy  of 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  j  y 

his  heart,  his  pride  and  his  delight.  He  had  thought  at 
first  of  sending  her  to  school,  but  she  had  resolutely  re- 
fused to  go.  Her  refusal  was  accompanied  by  such  en- 
dearing caresses,  such  a  charm  of  manner,  such  loving 
words  that  Sir  Leonard  could  not  be  angry ;  and  from 
that  moment  her  triumphant  rule  commenced.  A  long- 
suffering  line  of  governesses  had  tried  their  best  to  educate 
her,  but  it  had  been  found  a  difficult,  almost  impossible 
task.  She  had  caricatured  them,  mimicked  them,  caressed 
them,  defied  them — did  everything,  in  short  but  obey  thern^ 
One  more  courageous  than  the  rest,  went  to  complain  to  Sir 
Leonard. 

"  Miss  Gordon  will  not  obey,"  said  the  unfortunate 
lady.  "  What  am  I  to  do  with  her  ?  " 

"The  Gordons  are  accustomed  to  command,  not  to 
obey,"  said  the  child. 

A  wise  father  would  have  compelled  obedience — would 
have  punished  the  mutinous  speech.  But  Sir  Leonard 
was  not  wise.  He  merely  said,  sadly : 

"  People  must  learn  how  to  obey,  Ethel,  before  they 
know  how  to  command  ;  the  greatest  men  have  yielded 
the  most  implicit  obedience." 

"  So  would  I  to  you,  papa,  but  I  cannot  to  those  tire- 
some, complaining  women  ;  they  always  look  ready  to  cry, 
I  do  not  like  governesses  and  shall  be  glad  when  I  can  do 
without  them." 

The  whole  household  was  kept  in  such  a  continual  tur- 
moil by  the  warfare  between  Miss  Gordon  and  her  hapless 
instructors  that  it  was  a  real  relief  to  Sir  Leonard  when 
the  last  of  them  went  away.  Ethel  was  sixteen  then,  and 
she  gravely  declared  her  education  to  be  finished. 

"  I  know  quite  enough,  papa,"  she  said.  "  Besides,  I 
can  have  masters  if  necessary,  and  that  will  be  so  much 
better  than  a  governess  in  the  house." 

It  was  wonderful  what  an  amount  of  knowledge  she  had 


j 3  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

obtained ;  she  had  read  every  book  that  was  within  her 
reach,  she  had  made  herself  familiar  with  all  the  poets,  she 
had  a  mind  stored  with  all  kinds  of  information — some  of 
it  quaint  enough.  She  had  taken  to  music  naturally,  as 
birds  take  to  song.  She  played  with  most  exquisite  taste  ; 
it  seemed  as  though  the  half-awakened  soul  found  its  voice 
in  her  glorious  gift  of  song.  If  she  had  been  the  daughter 
of  poorer  people,  her  destiny  must  have  been  the  stage,  for 
her  voice  was  of  the  rarest  beauty — a  contralto  full  of 
sweetness.  Much  as  she  disliked  all  training  and  discipline 
she  had  submitted  to  anything  with  regard  to  her  music — 
long  hours  of  practice,  perseverance  in  exercises — and  the 
result  was  that  she  sang  with  a  taste  and  skill  rarely 
equalled.  Sir  Leonard  was  very  proud  of  this  gift ;  there 
was  no  pleasure  greater  to  him  than  that  which  he  derived 
from  his  daughter's  musical  talent. 

From  her  earliest  girlhood  she  had  been  accustomed  to 
have  the  full  control  of  her  father's  house.  While  barely 
old  enough  to  know  the  names  of  the  different  dishes,  she 
had  been  accustomed  to  give  orders  for  dinner ;  and  the 
servants  had  been  accustomed  to  look  to  her  for  orders. 
Child  though  she  was,  she  had  taken  the  greatest  interest 
in  her  father's  guests  ;  nothing  was  ever  done  without 
consulting  her.  Accustomed  as  she  had  been  to  the  most 
complete  sway  and  control  over  everything  and  every  one, 
it  seemed  to  her  now  very  hard  that  this  power  must  pass 
from  her  into  a  stranger's  hands. 

For  some  time  past  it  had  been  dawning  upon  Sir 
Leonard  that  with  all  his  daughter's  beauty  and  accom- 
plishments, she  was  in  many  respects  untrained  ;  by  this 
time  he  had  begun  to  see  that  in  reality  he  had  fostered 
and  encouraged  her  faults,  not  corrected  them.  Childish 
passion,  when  the  lovely  little  face  had  flushed  crimson, 
and  the  tiny  foot  had  been  stamped  upon  the  floor,  was 
one  thing  \  anger  so  frankly  displayed  by  a  young  girl  was 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  !9 

different.  Love  of  rule  and  pride  of  power  were  amusing 
in  a  child ;  in  a  grown  girl  they  were  not  pleasant. 

Then  the  world,  in  its  interfering  fashion,  had  begun 
to  tell  him  how  much  better  it  would  be  if  he  had  some 
lady  to  chaperon  his  daughter — how  much  better  it  would 
be  if  she  had  some  lady  companion.  When  the  offer 
came  from  the  Austrian  Embassador,  the  matter  seemed 
pressing  upon  him ;  it  was  impossible  that  he  should  take 
her  with  him  ;  yet  it  seemed  equally  impossible  that  he 
should  leave  her  at  home.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but 
finding  a  chaperon  for  her ;  and  who  would  be  so  unex- 
ceptionable in  every  way  as  the  lady  he  was  hoping  to 
marry  ? 

He  shrank  at  first  from  telling  Ethel  his  resolve,  but 
there  was  no  escape ;  and  her  reception  of  it  was  more 
favorable  than  he  had  dared  to  hope. 


20  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THROUGH  the  green  lanes,  where  the  hedges  were  one 
mass  of  bloom,  where  the  hawthorn  gave  out  its  fragrance, 
and  the  woodbines  trailed  their  long  sprays ;  where  starry 
primroses  from  their  green  leaves  looked  like  great  golden 
stars  ;  where  the  purple  violets  hid  themselves  between  the 
fern  leaves ;  where  the  tall  trees  met  overhead,  and  the 
sunshine,  passing  through  the  thick  branches,  fell  in  golden 
splendor — through  the  ancient  woods,  ringing  with  the 
musical  song  of  the  birds,  great  sheets  of  wild  hyacinth 
and  bluebells,  which  stretched  out  like  the  waves  of  a  blue 
sea,  stirring  faintly  in  the  warm  spring  breeze — rode  Sir 
Leonard  and  his  daughter.  It  was  a  very  paradise  of 
beauty,  of  music,  and  sweet  perfume. 

But  neither  the  smiles  of  the  sun,  nor  the  song  of  the 
birds,  nqr  the  scent  of  the  flowers  brought  any  brightness 
to  Ethel  Gordon.  More  than  once  during  their  ride  Sir 
Leonard  turned  to  her,  and  said  : 

"  I  wish  you  would  look  more  cheerful,  Ethel ;  all  that 
I  am  doing  is  for  your  own  good." 

"  I  cannot  well  see,  papa,  how  you  can  think  of  marry- 
ing again  for  my  especial  benefit,  but  I  suppose  you  know 
best." 

It  was  a  relief  to  Sir  Leonard  to  reach  Chantry  court. 

"  You  will  be  sure  to  like  Miss  Digby,  Ethel,"  he  said  ; 
"  you  will  not  be  able  to  help  it— she  is  so  amiable,  so  kind 
of  heart,  so  gentle  in  manner." 

Miss  Gordon  made  no  reply.  In  her  heart  she  rebelled 
with  the  fiercest  rebellion  against  her  father's  decree  ;  in 
her  heart  she  had  resolved  never  to  like,  never  to  obey, 
never  even  to  please  the  lady  who  was  to  take  her  dead 
mother's  place. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  2 1 

Lady  Davencourt  and  Miss  Digby  were  both  at  home. 
Sir  Leonard  and  his  daughter  were  shown  into  the  draw- 
ing-room, where  the  baronet  tried  to  look  quite  at  his  ease, 
and  Ethel,  without  deigning  to  utter  a  word,  sat  in  one  of 
her  most  queenly  attitudes,  beautiful,  wilful,  and  defiant. 
Sir  Leonard  turned  angrily  to  her  at  last. 

"  Your  indulgence  of  this  angry  temper,  Ethel,  proves 
to  me  that  you  are  indeed  in  great  need  of  some  one  to 
correct,  to  guide,  and  advise  you.  I  say  nothing  about 
the  want  of  respect  you  show  to  me,  but  I  must  impress 
upon  you  that  it  is  unladylike." 

The  proud  lips  were  not  opened  in  excuse,  Ethel 
gathering  the  folds  of  her  riding  habit  around  her  in  a  dis- 
dainful silence. 

Then  the  door  opened,  and  Laura  Davencourt  entered. 
She  gave  one  rapid  glance  from  father  to  daughter. 

"  There  is  something  wrong  here,"  she  thought,  as  she 
hastened  to  greet  them. 

"Lady  Davencourt  is  with  Miss  Digby  in  the  grounds,"' 
said  Laura.  "  Would  you  like  to  join  them  there  ?  " 

A  few  minutes  later  the  whole  party  were  seated  on  the- 
lawn  under  the  shade  of  a  large  beech-tree.  Lady  Daven*- 
court  greeted  her  visitors  warmly,  and  then  Sir  Leonard, 
taking  his  daughter's  unwilling  hand,  led  her  to  Mass 
Digby. 

He  introduced  them  in  a  few  words,  and  Ethel,  raising 
her  proud,  frank  eyes,  looked  upon  the  face  of  the  woman 
who  was  to  cross  her  life  so  fatally. 

It  was  a  pleasant  face  upon  which  Sir  Leonard's 
daughter  gazed — pleasant,  kind,  comely,  with  clear  smiling 
eyes  and  a  beautiful  mouth — a  face  that  would  win  trust 
and  liking,  yet  would  never  be  very  warmly  loved.  It  was 
essentially  the  face  of  a  woman  whose  life  had  run  in 
narrow  grooves,  who  knew  no  world  outside  her  own.  If 
a  face  is  any  index  to  the  soul,  then  Miss  Digby 's.  soul 


2  2  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

was  a  narrow  one — good,  kindly,  but  narrow.  She  did 
not  look  like  one  whose  ideas  were  noble  and  generous ; 
the  conventionalities  of  life  were  sufficient  for  her.  She 
understood  nothing  beyond  them ;  everything  uncommon 
was  wrong.  She  approved  of  rules  and  measures  ;  life  was 
to  be  portioned  out,  certain  things  were  to  be  done  at  cer- 
tain times,  originality  she  would  consider  as  a  sin  ;  and  all 
this  Ethel  Gordon,  with  her  quick  instinct,  divined  at  a 
glance. 

Miss  Digby  held  out  her  hand  with  a  winning,  kindly 
smile. 

"I  am  so  pleased  to  see  you,  Miss  Gordon!  Your 
papa  has  spoken  so  continually  of  you  that  I  was  quite 
anxious  to  see  you." 

No  answering  smile  came  over  the  beautiful  young  face. 

"I  am  much  flattered,"  replied  Ethel,  proudly;  and 
from  that  moment  Sir  Leonard's  chosen  wife  saw  that 
there  would  be  no  chance  of  winning  the  love  of  Sir  Leon- 
ard's daughter. 

"  You  must  have  had  a  pleasant  ride,"  continued  Miss 
Digby.  "  I  have  never  seen  Chantry  Wood  look  more 
beautiful." 

"  The  woods  were  beautiful  enough,"  replied  Ethel, 
"  but  our  ride  was  not  a  pleasant  one." 

Miss  Digby  saw  that  she  was  treading  on  dangerous 
ground,  and,  like  a  skilful  general,  retreated. 

Sir  Leonard,  observing  that  matters  were  not  upon  the 
most  pleasant  footing,  thought  it  time  to  interfere.  He 
came  up  to  Miss  Digby  and  began  to  talk  to  her.  Laura 
asked  Ethel  to  take  a  stroll  among  the  roses,  and  they 
went  away,  leaving  the  elders  alone.  Miss  Digby  looked 
after  them  with  wistful,  longing  eyes. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  Ethel  does  not  like  me,"  she  said  ; 
and  Sir  Leonard  detected  the  pain  in  her  voice. 

He  turned  to  her  and  clasped  her  hand  in  his,— 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  33 

"  My  dearest  Helen,"  he  said,  "  I  have  never  concealed 
from  you  that  Ethel  has  been  so  indulged  and  flattered 
that  she  is  quite  a  spoiled  child.  Frankly  speaking,  she 
is  sure  to  dislike  our  arrangement  ;  but  I  shall  ask  you  to 
persevere  in  it,  as  it  is  entirely  for  her  good." 

"  But  if  she  dislikes  it  so  very  much,"  said  the  lady, 
slowly,  "  would  it  not  be  better  to  give  it  up." 

"  Certainly  not/'  replied  Sir  Leonard,  eagerly.  "  Ethel 
has  never  been  contradicted  in  her  whole  life.  It  will  do 
her  good  to  find  that  her  will  is  not  quite  absolute." 

"  She  will  dislike  me  so  much  for  being  the  cause  of 
unpleasantness  to  her,"  said  Miss  Digby. 

"  You  will  surely  bear  all  that  for  my  sake,  Helen  ? 
You  have  promised  to  love  me  ;  and  in  the  future  that  lies 
before  us  the  only  drawback  I  see  is  my  daughter's  dislike 
to  all  control,  and  the  trouble  that  you  will  have  with  her 
at  first." 

Sir  Leonard  was  no  longer  young,  but  he  was  a  hand- 
some man.  The  musical  voice  and  the  beautiful  smile 
both  had  their  influence  on  the  lady  he  loved. 

"  Bear  that  for  my  sake,  Helen,"  he  continued,  "  and 
there  is  nothing  that  I  will  not  do  for  you  in  return.  I  will 
make  you  one  of  the  happiest  women  in  the  world." 

11  Do  I  understand  perfectly  what  you  wish  me  to  do  ?  " 
asked  Miss  Digby. 

"I  think  so.  Ethel  has  grown  up  without  any  control. 
She  has  been  mistress  of  Fountayne  and  everything  in  it 
since  she  was  quite  a  child.  I  want  you,  Helen,  to  impart 
to  her  some  of  your  sweet,  womanly  ways — to  train  her — 
to  teach  her,  if  possible,  the  beauty  of  submission  and  gen- 
tleness, the  need  of  obedience.  I  want  you,  if  you  will,  to 
uudo  the  harm  that  I  have  done — to  make  up  for  my  de- 
ficiencies— to  give  to  my  daughter  that  sweet,  wise,  womanly 
learning  that  should  have  been  hers  years  ago.  Do  you 
care  enough  for  me  to  do  all  this,  Helen  ?  " 


£4  REPENTED  AT  LEISURE. 

"  You  know  that  I  do,"  she  replied,  simply. 

"  It  will  not  be  a  pleasant  or  an  easy  task.  You  will 
have  great  difficulties,  but  I  have  faith  in  you,  Helen.  You 
will  overcome  them  for  my  sake  ?  " 

"  I  promise  you  to  do  my  best,"  she  replied,  with  a  sigh. 

She  did  most  dearly  love  this  handsome,  gallant  man  by 
her  side,.  She  looked  forward  with  the  keenest  pleasure  to 
passing  the  remainder  of  her  life  with  him  ;  but  she  shrank 
from  being  brought  into  collision  with  his  daughter. 

"  It  will  only  be  for  a  time,"  continued  Sir  Leonard  ; 
"  Ethel  has  plenty  of  sense.  She  will  see  that  it  is  for  her 
own  good.  I  know  you  will  be  patient  with  her,  Helen. 
She  is  always  full  of  spirits,  gay,  happy  ;  there  is  a  certain 
half-wilful,  half-defiant  frankness  about  her  that  is  very 
charming  ;  you  will  grow  fond  of  her — everybody  does — 
and  she  will  charm  you  in  spite  of  yourself." 

Miss  Digby  smiled,  thinking  that  in  this  respect  she  re- 
sembled her  father. 

"  You  must  be  firm  with  her,"  he  continued.  "  I  can- 
didly confess  that  she  has  her  own  way  with  me,  because  I 
never  could  resist  her  caresses,  her  winsome  manner,  her 
graceful  ways  ;  but  you,  Helen,  must  harden  your  heart 
against  her  pretty  wiles.  You  must  make  her  go  your  way, 
not  her  own." 

"  You  give  me  credit  for  great  courage  in  asking  me  to 
undertake  a  task  from  which  you  recoil,"  she  said  ;  "but 
I  will  try  to  accomplish  it." 

He  kissed  her  hand,  thanking  her  in  his  own  graceful 
fashion. 

"  I  have  but  one  regret,  Helen,"  he  said  ;  "  and  it  is 
that  you  should  have  anything  that  seems  like  a  task.  And 
a  task  it  will  be  to  tame  that  bright,  wild  bird  of  mine." 

And  there  came  to  him  no  warning  of  how  Ethel,  his 
proud,  beautiful  daughter,  would  in  reality  be  tamed. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  2  e 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Miss  DAVENCOURT  and  Ethel  wandered  from  the  lawn 
to  the  rose  garden,  and  there  they  were  content  to  sit.  Ethel 
watched  the  opening  blooms  with  a  far-off  look  in  her  beau- 
tiful eyes  ;  the  glory  of  white  and  of  crimson,  the  deep 
glow  of  the  damask  were  lost  upon  her.  Laura,  in  her 
turn,  watched  the  proud,perfect  face  until  she  felt  compelled 
to  speak. 

"  Will  you  tell  me  of  what  you  are  thinking,  Miss  Gor- 
don ?  "  she  asked.  "  Your  eyes  are  fixed  upon  the  roses, 
but  you  do  not  see  them.  What  are  you  thinking  about 
that  engrosses  you  so  entirely  ?  " 

A  smile  came  slowly  to  the  beautiful  lips. 

"  I  am  thinking,"  replied  Ethel,  "  of  Miss  Digby.  I 
do  not  like  her." 

"  Yet  she  is  very  much  loved  and  liked.  She  is  popu- 
lar among  all  kinds  of  people." 

"  I  have  a  theory  of  my  own,"  continued  Ethel,  in  a 
musing  voice,  "  and  I  am  a  great  believer  in  it." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  enlighten  me  ?  "  said  Laura. 

Ethel's  frank  eyes  lingered  for  one  minute  on  her  com- 
panion's pretty  face. 

"  I  am  not  quite  sure,"  she  said,  "  whether  you  will  un- 
derstand it." 

"  I  will  do  my  best,"  was  the  reply.  "  Tell  me  what 
your  theory  is." 

"  I  believe,"  said  Ethel,  "  that  souls  recognize  each 
other,  as  bodies  do.  For  instance,  I  meet  a  stranger,  my 
eyes  see  his  features,  note  the  shape  of  his  face,  the  color 
of  his  eyes,  his  height,  the  fashion  of  his  build ;  so  I  be- 


2  6  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

lieve  also  that  souls  see  each  other,  recognize  each  other, 
take  cognizance  of  each  other's  defects  and  virtues.  My 
eyes  saw  Miss  Digby's  face,  and  I  did  not  like  it ;  my  soul 
saw  Miss  Digby?s  soul,  and  did  not  like  it  either.  What 
do  you  think  of  my  theory,  Miss  Davencourt  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  it  accounts  for  the  likes  and  dislikes  we 
form  without  in  the  least  knowing  why,"  replied  Laura. 
"  But  you  are  prejudiced  against  Miss  Digby ;  she  is  kind, 
amiable,  and  self-sacrificing." 

"  I  understand  her  quite  as  well  as  though  I  had  known 
her  for  years,"  said  Ethel."  "  She  is  one  of  those  who 
model  life  after  a  certain  fashion ;  she  would  think  it 
wrong  to  act  upon  impulse,  whereas  I  like  impulse.  I 
should  imagine  no  two  people  could  be  more  different.  I 
shall  never  like  her." 

"  That  is  unfortunate,  replied  Laura,  quietly.  "  Sir 
Leonard's  arrangement  is  no  secret  from  us.  He  told 
mamma  that  he  hoped  to  marry  Miss  Digby  on  his  return 
from  Austria,  and  that  in  the  meantime  you  were  to  stay 
with  her." 

Ethel's  beautiful  face  grew  white  even  to  the  lips,  while 
her  slender  fingers  played  nervously  wfth  the  crimson 
leaves  of  a  damask  rose. 

So  it  was  known  already  that  her  father  contemplated 
a  second  marriage  ;  every  one  knew  that  she,  Ethel  Gor- 
don, was  to  reign  no  longer,  but  must  submit  to  the  sway 
of  a  stranger.  She  literally  could  not  endure  the  thought, 
but  rose  hastily  from  her  seat. 

"  Those  roses  are  overpowering,"  she  said ;  "  come 
away,  please.  I  have  no  wish  to  discuss  Miss  Digby," 
And  she  walked  down  the  gravel  path. 

"  We  had  better  rejoin  mamma,"  said  Miss  Daven- 
court, "she  is  alone.  Sir  Leonard  is*  talking  to  Miss  Dig- 
by.  Where  is  she  going? — I  forget  the  name  of  the 
place." 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


27 


"  To  St.  Ina's  bay,"  replied  Ethel. 

"  We  were  speaking  of  you  last  evening,"  continued 
Miss  Davencourt.  "It  will  be  hard  for  you  to  give  up 
the  authority  you  have  held  so  long." 

There  was  a  soupcon  of  malice  in  the  smile  which  ac- 
companied these  words,  and  Ethel  detected  it.  All  the 
pride  of  the  Gordons  flashed  in  her  face.  No  matter  what 
she  suffered,  the  world  must  not  know  it.  No  man  or 
woman  living  must  be  able  to  laugh  because  Ethel  Gor- 
don was  deposed  from  her  sovereignly.  She  resolutely 
conquered  herself. 

"  I  am  not  sure,"  she  returned,  "  I  shall  be  able  to  tell 
you  more  when  the  experiment  has  been  tried." 

Laura  Davencourt  looked  up  in  surprise.  She  had 
expected  the  young  girl  to  reply  dolefully,  but  her  voice  was 
clear,  soft,  and  gay. 

Laura  professed  to  like  Miss  Gordon,  yet  more  than 
once  she  had  felt  jealous  of  the  beautiful  Ethel,  and  rather 
enjoyed  the  prospect  of  seeing  her  deposed.  But  Ethel 
would  not  allow  this  girl  to  triumph  over  her. 

Miss  Digby  resolved  that  no  effort  should  be  wanting 
on  her  part  to  win  Ethel's  affection.  She  could  understand 
the  girl's  petulance  at  her  disappointment,  and  resolved 
to  bear  patiently  with  it.  She  said  to  herself  that  she 
would  never  resent  it ;  that  she  would  never  reply  to  Ethel's 
bitter  little  speeches,  but  would  do  her  best  to  win  her  by 
gentleness,  by  affection,  and  kindness. 

When  the  two  young  girls  appeared — Ethel  with  a 
proud,  haughty  carriage,  and  calm,  almost  scornful  face, 
Laura  flushed  and  somewhat  discomfited — she  wondered 
greatly.  Resolved  to  put  her  quite  at  her  ease,  Miss  Dig- 
by  went  up  to  her. 

"  Have  you  been  admiring  the  roses  ? "  she  asked. 
"They  are  considered  very  fine." 

The  proud  eyes  looked  her  through,  the  proud  lips 


28  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

opened  slightly,  and  then   Miss  Gordon  made  some  half- 
inaudible  reply  and  passed  on. 

"  Ethel,"  said  Miss  Digby,  gently,  "  if  you  can  give  me 
a  few  minutes  I  should  be  so  pleased.  I  want  you  to  lis- 
ten to  something  that  I  have  to  say." 

Ethel  turned.  It  was  no  part  of  her  duty  as  yet,  she 
thought,  to  listen  to  Miss  Digby.  The  beautiful  face  was 
a  study  as  she  half  turned  round,  the  better  to  hear  what 
her  companion  had  to  say. 

"  Ethel,"  repeated  Miss  Digby,  "  I  wish  you  would  learn 
to  know  me  and  like  me." 

"  You  think  the  one  would  be  the  sequel  to  the  other," 
replied  Ethel ;  "  I  do  not.  I  have  no  doubt  that  in  time  I 
may  know  you  ;  but  liking  you  is  a  different  matter." 

She  spoke  so  frankly,  so  fearlessly,  that  it  was  impos- 
sible not  to  admire  her. 

*  If  I  study  your  wishes,  Ethel — if  I  do  all  I  can  to 
make  you  happy — surely  you  will  like  me  then  ? " 

"  Not  then,  or  ever,  I  think,"  replied  Ethel.  "  In  the 
first  place,  Miss  Digby,  you  take  my  dead  mother's,  Lady 
Angela's  place ;  and  you  will  pardon  me  if  I  say  that,  in 
my  opinion,  no  one  on  earth  is  fitted  to  take  that  place." 

"  It  is  only  natural,  Ethel,  that  you  should  think  so.  I 
admire  you  for  it.  I  loved  my  own  mother  after  that 
fashion." 

"Then,"  interrupted  Ethel,  quickly,  "you  would  not 
have  liked  to  see  any  one  in  your  mother's  place  ? " 

"  Perhaps  not,"  admitted  Miss  Digby.  "  But  you  love 
your  father,  too,  Ethel.  Now,  if  I  can  contribute  to  his 
happiness,  surely  you  would  love  me  all  the  better  for  it  ?  " 

Ethel  looked  up  at  her  with  clear,  dauntless  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  think  that  I  should,"  she  replied.  "  Now 
that  my  mother  is  dead,  my  father's  love  belongs  by  right 
to  me  alone." 

"  That  is  a  selfish  view  of  the  matter,"  said  Miss  Digby, 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  39 

gently.  "  Sir  Leonard  has  a  right  to  be  happy  in  his  own 
way,  as  you  have  to  be  in  yours." 

"  It  is  a  question  that  we  need  not  argue,"  interrupted 
Ethel,  proudly.  "  If  my  father  thinks  you  will  add  to  his 
happiness,  I  have  no  more  to  say ;  but  there  is  a  second 
reason  which  makes  the  contemplation  of  such  a  marriage 
very  displeasing  to  me.  I  have  been  accustomed  to  rule 
in  my  father's  house  ;  no  one  has  ever  disputed  my  sway. 
The  servants  have  been  accustomed  to  obey  my  orders, 
and  frankly  speaking,  it  will  seem  very  hard  for  me  to 
yield  my  authority  to  a  stranger. 

Miss  Digby  looked  compassionately  on  the  beautiful, 
imperious  face,  with  its  flashes  of  tenderness  and  defiance. 

"  It  is  hard  for  you,"  she  said,  with  grave  gentleness  ; 
"  but  it  will  most  certainly  be  for  your  ultimate  good." 

"  All  disgreeable  things  are  for  our  good,'7  remarked 
Ethel,  brusquely.  "Will  you  explain,  Miss  Digby,  why 
you  say  so  ? " 

The  lady  smiled  at  the  petulant  words. 

"  I  shall  be  in  greater  disgrace  than  ever,"  she  said  ; 
"  but,  since  you  ask  me  frankly,  I  will  answer  you  frankly. 
It  will  be  for  your  benefit,  because  you  are  too  young  to 
have  so  heavy  a  charge  upon  you  as  the  care  and  direction 
of  Fountayne  Hall.  If  you  do  it,  and  do  it  well,  then  your 
education  and  culture  must  suffer.  You  cannot  attend  to 
both." 

"  My  education  is  finished,"  said  Ethel,  with  great 
dignity. 

"  Pardon  me,  it  has  not  even  begun.  I  mean,  not  the 
truest,  brightest  part  of  education — learning  to  control  and 
govern  ourselves — that  is  its  true  end,  Ethel." 

"  I  have  fulfilled  my  duties,"  argued  the  young  girl ; 
"  no  one  can  do  more." 

Miss  Digby  looked  at  her  sadly. 

"  Then  you  will  not  promise  even  to  try  to  like  me  ?  " 


3o  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"No,"  was  the  lingering  reply.  "I  am  very  frank 
Miss  Digby,  and  it  would  be  cruelly  false  to  say  '  Yes.7  I 
cannot  like  you.  If  I  possibly  can,  I  will  persuade  papa 
even  now  to  abandon  both  his  projects.  If  I  cannot,  then 
I  shall  never  like  you,  and  I  shall  even  love  him  less." 

She  looked  up  with  such  scorn — with  such  a  conviction 
that  no  punishment  could  be  greater  for  Sir  Leonard  than 
the  loss  of  her  love — that  Miss  Digby  felt  touched. 

"  You  are  so  frank,  Miss  Gordon,"  she  said,  "  that  I 
cannot  help  admiring  when  I  really  ought  to  blame  you. 
I  must  trust  to  him  to  win  for  me  some  share  of  what  I 
value  very  much — your  good  opinion.  Will  you  believe  one 
thing — that  while  you  are  with  me  I  will  do  my  very  best 
to  make  you  happy." 

4<  I  believe  that  you  will  try  to  do  so ;  and  I  know  that 
you  will  fail,"  was  the  ungracious  answer.  After  which 
Miss  Digby  said  no  more. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  3  x 


CHAPTER  V. 

SIR  LEONARD  GORDON  was  not  altogether  satisfied  with 
his  daughter.  He  had  seen  an  expression  of  pain  on  Miss 
Digby's  face  that  annoyed  him.  Yet  he  knew  that  the 
more  he  said  to  Ethel  the  more  it  affected  her. 

"  I  ought  to  have  married  years  ago,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, "and  then  Ethel  would  have  been  accustomed  to 
obedience.  It  will  be  difficult  to  manage  her  now." 

He  found  the  task  even  more  difficult  than  he  had  an- 
ticipated. Ethel  had  been  thinking  seriously,  and  the 
more  she  pondered  the  whole  affair,  the  greater  became  her 
dislike  to  it. 

"  I  must  make  one  more  effort,"  she  thought ;  "  I  will 
make  one  more  appeal  to  my  father.  If  he  refuses  to  hear 
me,  let  it  be  so ;  if  he  consents,  then  all  the  love  of  my 
life  will  hardly  suffice  to  repay  him." 

She  was  silent  and  thoughtful  during  the  remainder  of 
the  day.  Sir  Leonard,  watching  her,  wondered  as  to  the 
nature  of  her  reflections. 

"  Is  she  making  up  her  mind  to  obey,  or  to  revolt  ?  " 
he  said  to  himself ;  but  even  he  was  not  prepared  for  what 
she  did. 

That  same  evening  Sir  Leonard  was  sitting  alone  in 
his  own  study — a  room  that  he  should  have  used  for  the 
purpose  of  reading  and  writing,  but  which  was  more  often 
devoted  to  cigars  and  meditations.  The  night  was  so  fine, 
the  balmy  air  so  sweet,  that  he  had  lowered  the  lamps, 
had  opened  wide  the  long  French  windows,  had  drawn  two 


32  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

chairs  together  in  order  that  he  might  lounge  at  his  ease, 
and  sat  enjoying  the  luxury  of  a  choice  Havana. 

The  moonlight  fell  on  tree  and  flower,  on  the  silent 
fountains  and  deep,  clear  lake — moonlight  so  bright,  so 
silvery,  that  it  was  far  more  beautiful  than  the  light  of  day. 
The  dew  lay  like  shining  diamonds  on  grass  and  leaf,  the 
night  wind  was  laden  with  the  perfume  of  new-mown  hay 
in  the  valley,  of  the  hawthorn  in  the  hedges.  In  the  woods 
a  nightingale  was  singing,  and  the  faint,  sweet  notes  fell 
clearly  on  Sir  Leonard's  ear ;  the  stars  were  gleaming  in 
the  sky — it  was  one  of  those  nights  that  awake  all  the 
poetry  in  the  depths  of  a  man's  soul. 

Sir  Leonard  thought  of  many  things  as  he  sat  there,  of 
the  high-born  Lady  Angela,  who  had  been  dead  so  many 
years — of  the  beautiful,  proud,  imperious  daughter,  whom 
he  had  loved  as  fathers  seldom  love  their  children — of  the 
fair-faced,  gentle  woman  who  was  to  be  his  second  wife. 
There  came  to  him,  as  he  mused  a  certainty — he  had 
loved  Lady  Angela,  and  he  loved  Helen  Digby;  but  he 
could  see  now  that  the  great  passion  of  his  life  was  the 
love  he  had  felt  for  his  daughter.  There  was  nothing  to 
be  compared  with  that  ;  and  now,  with  the  clear  stars 
shining  on  him,  and  the  fragrant  night  wind  whispering  of 
high  and  holy  thoughts,  it  occurred  to  him  that  his  love 
had  been  wrong.  He  had  shown  it  by  over-indulgence — 
by  indulging  his  daughter's  every  whim  and  caprice.  He 
had  been  amused  where  he  should  have  punished  her  ;  he 
had  laughed  where  he  should  have  scolded ;  he  had  given 
her  all  power  and  all  authority  where  he  should  have  in- 
sisted upon  obedience.  He  saw  it  all,  now  that  the  clear, 
calm  voice  of  a  wise  and  sensible  woman  had  pointed  it 
out  to  him ;  and  he  resolved  to  do  all  he  could  to  atone 
for  it.  He  must  be  firm  with  her,  not  yielding  to  her 
persuasions,  but  insisting  upon  her  compliance  with  his 
wishes. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  ^ 

Just  as  Sir  Leonard  had  reached  this  point  in  his  medi- 
tations, two  white  arms  were  clasped  round  his  neck,  and 
a  beautiful  face  drooped  over  his. 

"  Papa,"  said  a  sweet  musical  voice,  "  I  knew  that  I 
should  find  you  here,  and  I  know  that  you  are  thinking  of 
me." 

"  You  are  right,  Ethel ;  I  am  always  thinking  of  you, 
my  darling." 

"  Then  your  thoughts  must  be  pleasant  ones,"  said  the 
girl,  with  the  assured  voice  of  one  who  knows  she  is 
dearly  loved. 

She  laid  her  face  against  her  father's ;  she  kissed  him 
and  caressed  him  in  her  loving,  half  tender,  half  imperious 
fashion. 

"  I  am  come,  papa,"  she  said,  "  to  make  one  more 
appeal  to  you — to  ask  you  once  more  if  it  is  not  possible 
to  induce  you  to  give  up  these  two  plans — of  your  marriage, 
and  my  going  to  St.  Ina's  Bay." 

"  My  dearest  Ethel,  I  thought  that  matter  was  settled. 
I  am  sorry  that  you  should  renew  the  subject." 

She  unclasped  her  arms  from  his  neck,  and,  going 
round,  knelt  down  in  front  of  him.  Sir  Leonard  thought 
he  had  never  seen  anything  so  fair  as  her  face  in  the  moon- 
light. 

"  Papa,  darling,  I  never  prayed  you  to  grant  me  a  favor. 
You  have  been  so  kind  and  so  good  that  there  has  been 
no  need  for  me  to  ask,  but  I  do  pray  you  now  to  grant  me 
this  grace — do  not  think  of  marrying,  and  do  not  send  me 
to  St.  Ina's." 

Tears  were  shining  brightly  in  her  beautiful  eyes  as 
she  raised  them  to  him,  and  her  voice  trembled  with  emo- 
tion. 

"  I  pray  you,  papa,  by  all  your  love  for  me — by  all  your 
kindness  to  me.  I  will  make  it  all  up  to  you  ;  I  will  give 
you  all  the  love  of  my  heart ;  I  will  study  your  happiness 


34  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

in  every  way  ;  I  will  think  of  nothing  but  you  ;  I  will  learn 
to  be  the  most  prudent,  the  most  discreet,  the  most  care- 
ful of  housekeepers,  I  will  learn  to  be  anything  you  wish. 
From  the  very  depths  of  my  heart  I  pray  you,  dear  papa, 
to  grant  me  this  grace." 

Her  voice  was  so  earnest,  her  face  so  eloquente,  that 
Sir  Leonard  was  deeply  moved. 

"  My  dear  Ethel,  I  really  cannot  accede  to  your  wish ; 
the  arrangement  is  made,  and  must  be  adhered  to." 

"  I  have  never  knelt  to  ask  anything  from  you  before, 
papa,  and  if  you  refuse,  I  never  shall  again.  Out  of  the 
depths  of  my  heart,  with  all  the  love  and  earnestness  I 
have,  I  beg  of  you  to  think  again  before  you  decide 
irrevocably.'' 

He  was  deeply  distressed,  and  for  a  moment  the  pos- 
sibility of  acceding  to  her  wishes  occurred  to  him.  Then 
the  fair  face  of  Helen  Digby  came  before  him,  and  the 
warnings  that  had  been  given  him  about  Ethel's  untutored 
ways  and  wilful  manners  returned  to  him  with  redoubled 
force.  Ethel,  watching  his  face  intently,  saw  there  no  an- 
swer to  her  petition.  She  clung  more  closely  to  him,  and 
laid  her  hand  on  his. 

"  Do  listen  to  me,  papa.  I  can  see  my  life  before  me, 
as  it  were,  and  I  am  frightened  to  think  of  what  will 
become  of  me  if  I  am  made  miserable  ;  it  is  partly  to  save 
myself  that  I  am  here  now.  I  ca;  not  brook  control.  I 
could  not  obey  a  stranger.  I  could  not  love  any  one  who 
took  my  dead  mother's  place.  I  could  not  bear  constraint 
and  control  now." 

She  paused  one  half  minute,  for  the  passion  of  her  own 
words  exhausted  her. 

"  No  good  would  come  of  it,  papa,"  she  cried.  "  The 
Gordons  never  bear  .control  well,  and  I  have  a  sure  pre- 
sentiment that  evil  would  follow.  My  life  would  be  dark 
and  dreary.  For  .my  sake  give  it  up,  and  trust  to  me." 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  35 

Sir  Leonard  took  the  young  girl  in  his  arms  ;  he  was 
pale  and  grave,  as  the  moonlight  showed  him  her  beautiful 
face,  wet  with  tears,  and  her  lips  quivering. 

"  Ethel,"  he  said,  with  grave  tenderness,  "  when  you 
were  a  little  child,  if  you  had  asked  me  for  a  sharp  sword 
as  a  plaything,  do  you  think  I  should  have  given  it  to 
you  ?  " 

"  No  "  she  replied,  "  certainly  not." 

"  Now  you  ask  me  to  place  in  your  hands  that  which 
would  be  more  destructive  to  you  than  a  sharp  sword,  I 
cannot  do  it.  I  cannot  consent  to  leave  you  alone,  and  I 
shall  carry  out  my  plans  of  marrying,  that  you  may  have 
the  guidance  of  a  good  and  wise  woman.3' 

The  pride  that  flashed  into  her  face  seemed  quickly  to 
dry  her  tears.  She  turned  haughtily  away  from  him. 

"  You  have  refused  my  first  petition,  papa  ;  I  shall  never 
ask  another.  I  tell  you  that  evil  will  come  of  it,  and  I 
will  prove  to  you  that  it  would  have  been  wiser  and  better 
to  leave  me  alone. " 

"  I  hope  you  will  do  nothing  rash,  Ethel — nothing  in 
the  first  impulse  of  anger." 

"  I  shall  live  to  hear  you  say,  papa,  that  the  most  un- 
fortunate day  of  my  life  was  that  on  which  you  left  me  in 
Miss  Digby's  charge." 

Yet  she  never  dreamed  how  those  words  were  to  be 
verified,  nor  in  what  manner  they  would  come  true. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE 


CHAPTER  VI. 

FROM  that  moonlight  night  when  her  one  great  prayer 
had  been  refused,  her  wishes  disregarded,  her  earnest 
supplication  set  aside,  Ethel  Gordon  was  completely 
changed.  She  had  been  gay,  wilful,  and  defiant  ;  she  had 
exercised  her  power  with  a  half-laughing  enjoyment  of  it  ; 
but  now  all  was  altered.  She  laid  no  tragic  plans,  she 
thought  of  no  revenge,  she  did  not  assume  the  airs  of  a 
tragedy  queen,  but  it  seemed  as  though  the  brightest  part 
of  her  youth  and  beauty  had  faded  from  her. 

Sir  Leonard  heard  no  more  those  sweet  snatches  of 
song  which  had  once  charmed  him  so  completely  ;  he  heard 
no  more  the  low,  silvery  laughter  which  had  been  the  very 
joy  of  his  heart.  Ethel  grew  grave,  calm,  and  dignified  ;  she 
went  through  her  duties  as  usual,  but  the  laughing 
caprices,  the  repartees,  the  pretty,  gay,  graceful  whims 
that  had  seemed  part  of  herself,  were  all  wanting  now.  Sir 
Leonard  looked  at  her  sadly,  as  one  might  at  a  bright- 
winged  bird  that  had  been  grievously  wounded. 

She  never  resumed  the  subject  of  their  past  conversa- 
tion ;  whatever  Sir  Leonard  said,  she  listened  to  without 
comment,  making  no  reply  to  any  of  his  hints  about  the 
beauty  of  St.  Ina's  Bay.  His  marriage  was  not  as  yet 
' publicly  discussed,  but  most  people  who  learned  what 
arrangement  he  had  made  guessed  at  it. 

Ethel  heard  much  of  what  was  said — conjectures,  re- 
marks, expressions  of  wonder  and  approval — but  she  uttered 
no  word.  The  beautiful  face  and  the  proud  heart  kept 
their  own  secret.  She  would  have  died  a  hundred  deaths 
rather  than  betray  how  deeply  she  was  wounded. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


37 


Sir  Leonard  thinking  her  silence  a  good  sign,  grew 
quite  courageous.  He  rode  over  every  day  to  see  Miss 
Digby,  yet  Ethel  never  offered  the  least  comment  upon  his 
absence.  He  took  with  him  at  times  the  most  superb 
bouquets ;  she  made  no  allusion  to  them.  Once  or  twice 
he  asked  her  to  accompany  him  to  Chantry  Court ;  she 
complied,  but  even  there  she  made  no  sign.  When  Miss 
Digby  spoke  to  her,  she  answered  with  perfect  composure 
and  indifference.  She  sought  for  no  communication  with 
her,  and  she  repelled  none.  She  was  calm,  her  manner 
full  of  proud,  graceful  nonchalance,  and  no  one  knew 
what  an  aching  heart  ft  veiled. 

Miss  Davencourt  looked  wonderingly  at  her.  After 
she  was  gone,  while  the  spell  of  her  beautiful  presence 
rested  on  her,  she  said  to  Miss  Digby, — 

"  Either  I  have  been  mistaken  in  my  estimate  of  Ethel 
Gordon's  character,  or  she  is  very  much  changed." 

Lady  Davencourt,  who  overheard  the  remark,  smiled. 

"  Rely  upon  it,  Laura,"  she  said,  "  you  have  been  mis- 
taken. I  do  not  think  anything  would  ever  change  Ethel. 
She  is  the  proudest  girl  I  know,  and  nothing  will  ever 
make  her  less  proud." 

"  I  should  have  imagined  that  she  would  resent  in- 
stantly any  attempt  at  setting  her  authority  aside,"  ob- 
served Laura. 

Miss  Digby  said  nothing,  but  thought  deeply.  She 
would  almost  have  been  better  pleased  if  the  young  girl 
had  shown  some  little  resentment — if  she  had  been  angry 
or  contemptuous  ;  anything  would  have  been  better  than 
this  polished  indifference,  this  nonchalant  calm.  Helen 
Digby  never  doubted  in  her  own  mind  but  that  it  covered 
the  raging  of  a  tempest. 

Once,  when  Sir  Leonard  tried  to  revive  the  vexed 
topic,  Ethel,  looking  at  him  quietly,  said, — 

"  We  had  better  not  discuss  the  question,  papa.     What 


3g  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

must  be,  must  be  ;  nothing  further  need  be  said  about  it. 
I  find  that  words  are  very  useless,  after  all." 

After  that  Sir  Leonard  said  no  more. 

June  came  round  with  its  warmth,  its  sweetness  of  per* 
fume,  its  bloom  of  roses  and  brightness  of  sun.  One 
morning,  quite  unexpectedly,  Sir  Leonard  received  a  tele- 
gram. The  government  business  had  been  hastened,  and 
he  was  to  leave  on  the  morrow  for  Austria. 

"  Ethel,"  he  said,  "  here  is  news  that  I  did  not  expect, 
I  must  leave  you  to-morrow." 

The  next  moment  he  wished  he  had  broken  the  news 
more  gently  to  her,  for  her  face  grew  white  even  to  the 
very  lips. 

"  To-morrow ! "  she  repeated.  "  We  have  never  been 
parted  before.  It  is  very  sudden." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Sir  Leonard.  "  I  wished  to 
take  you  myself  to  St.  Ina's ;  that  will  not  be  possible  now* 
I  should  have  left  you  more  happily  if  I  had  seen  you 
safely  there." 

Ethel  had  recovered  her  calmness,  but  the  color  did 
not  return  to  her  face. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  better  as  it  is,  papa.  I  shall  leave  my 
old  home  and  you  at  the  same  time.  Life  will  never  be 
the  same  again  for  me." 

"  It  will  be  happier,  my  darling,"  he  interrupted ;  and 
she,  remembering  how  soon  they  were  to  be  parted,  re- 
pressed the  quick  retort  that  rose  to  her  lips. 

How  she  suffered  during  the  remainder  of  that  day, 
no  one  ever  guessed ;  the  love,  the  pride,  the  sorrow  that 
warred  in  her  soul,  the  struggle  between  her  love  for  her 
father,  her  grief  at  losing  him,  and  the  angry  pride  that 
forbade  any  expression  of  either  love  or  grief — her  hatred 
of  the  fair-faced,  gentle  lady  who  was  to  take  her  dead 
mother's  place — her  natural  sorrow  and  reluctance  at 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  39 

parting  with  her  old  home,  and  laying  down  the  crown  she 
had  worn  so  long — all  rushed  over  her  at  once. 

She  had  a  long  and  bitter  sorrow  before  her.  She  had 
to  carry  a  burden  that  would  have  broken  the  heart  of 
most  women — she  had  a  future  before  her  from  which  the 
strongest  heart  might  have  shrunk  in  dismay  and  sorrow. 
But  in  that  sad  afterlife  there  was  perhaps  no  day  except 
one  in  which  she  suffered  so  terribly  as  she  did  now. 

Sir  Leonard  was  busily  occupied ;  he  had  arrangements 
to  make  with  his  lawyer  and  his  steward.  The  household 
was  to  be  kept  on  as  usual — none  of  the  servants  were  to 
be  parted  with.  The  housekeeper  was  left  in  authority 
during  the  summer  months,  and  the  servants  were  told 
that  in  the  autumn  Miss  Digby  would  return  with  Miss 
Gordon,  and  that  from  that  time  all  authority  must  be  con- 
sidered as  vested  in  the  former's  hands.  There  was  some 
little  murmuring — some  little  demur — but  no  one  dared 
to  utter  a  word. 

It  was  evening  when  Sir  Leonard  rode  away  to  Chantry 
Court. 

"  I  shall  make  all  arrangements  for  you,  Ethel,"  he  said, 
"  and  I  have  no  doubt  Miss  Digby  will  wish  you  to  join 
her  to-morrow." 

Her  love  for  her  father  repressed  the  angry  words 
which  rose  to  her  lips.  She  raised  her  colorless  face  to  his. 

"  Do  not  think  of  me,  papa,"  she  entreated ;  "  think 
only  of  yourself."  He  kissed  the  sweet,  pale  face. 

"  My  darling  Ethel,"  he  said,  "  I  did  not  know  how 
dearly  I  loved  you  until  now.  I  thank  Heaven  that  I  can 
leave  you  in  such  excellent  care." 

She  made  no  reply.  "  I  shall  not  have  one  minute's 
fear  for  you,  Ethel,"  he  continued.  "  Under  my  charge,  you 
might  perhaps  have  committed  some  girlish  imprudence^ 
but  under  Miss  Digby's  that  will  be  impossible.  I  have 
no  hesitancy  and  no  fear." 


40  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

He  could  not  have  spoken  more  unfortunate  words,  fo^ 
they  returned  to  her  in  the  hour  when  the  most  subtle  of 
all  temptations  was  before  her,  and  they  turned  the  scale 
against  her. 

It  was  late  when  Sir  Leonard  returned,  but  she  was 
waiting  for  him.  He  looked  tired  and  pale,  careworn  and 
htigued. 

"  I  did  not  think  you  would  sit  up  for  me,  my  darling," 
he  said  to  Ethel.  "  I  have  made  all  arrangements  for  you, 
and  you  will  be  happy,  I  am  sure.  I  have  told  Mr.  Smith- 
son  that  he  is  to  make  you  an  ample  allowance  for  your 
own  expenses,  so  that  you  will  not  be  short  of  money  ;  you 
can  have  more  at  any  time  by  writing  to  me." 

She  clasped  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  hid  her  white 
face  on  his  breast. 

"  Do  not  talk  to  me  about  money,  papa,"  she  said  j 
"  all  the  money  in  the  world  could  not  compensate  me  for 
one  hour  of  your  absence." 

"  Miss  Digby  will  drive  over  here  to-morrow  afternoon," 
he  observed,  "  and  you  will  start  at  four  for  St.  Ina's. 
Heaven  bless  my  darling,  and  make  her  happy  there  !  " 

At  the  sound  of  Miss  Digby's  name  her  arms  fell  from  ; 
him  she  raised  her  face,  and  its  tenderness  deepened  into 
gloom ;  all  the  memory  of  her  wrongs  seemed  to  rush  over 
her  at  once  ;  her  very  voice  changed  as  she  answered  him. 

"  My  greatest  pleasure  will  be  to  hear  from  you,  Ethel 
— to  know  that  you  are  well  and  happy — to  know  that 
you  are  learning  to  like  Miss  Digby,  and  profiting  by  her 
society." 

An  indignant  flush  covered  her  face,  but  he  was  going 
away,  and  she  would  not  grieve  him. 

"  Try  to  love  her,  Ethel,  for  my  sake,  and  because  the 
happiness  of  our  household  will  depend  upon  your  love 
In  two  years  you  will  have  seen  so  much  of  her  that  you 
will  know  how  to  appreciate  her." 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  4I 

"  Papa."  cried  the  girl,  in  a  very  anguish  of  sorrow, 
"talk  tome  of  yourself,  now  that  you  are  going,  not  of  her." 

"  I  shall  be  away  for  only  two  years,  Ethel,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  and  when  I  come  back  you  will  let  me  see  my 
hopes  accomplished.  Let  me  find  you — more  beautiful 
you  can  never  be — but  more  patient  and  gentle,  more  sub- 
missive— will  you,  darling  ?  Correct  the  faults  that  through 
my  carelessness  have  grown  with  your  years.  Let  me  find 
you  gentle,  obedient,  all  that  my  heart  desires,  and  then  I 
shall  be  richly  repaid  for  all  the  sorrow  of  absence.  Will 
you,  for  my  sake,  promise  to  become  this,  Ethel  ?  " 

There  was  a  brief  struggle  between  her  intense  love 
for  her  father  and  her  passionate  pride,  but  her  pride 
carried  the  day.  She  turned  from  him. 

"  You  will  have  others  to  think  of  when  you  return, 
papa." 

"  Yes,  but  none  whom  I  love  like  you,  Ethel "  he  re- 
plied sadly. 

If  either  father  or  daughter  could  have  foreseen  what 
was  to  happen  during  those  two  years,  it  would  have  seemed 
to  them  more  merciful  that  she  should  have  died  then  and 
there. 


42  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


CHAPTER.  VII. 

IT  was  over — that  terrible  parting  which  had  seemed  to 
Ethel  more  bitter  than  death.  Sir  Leonard  had  delayed 
the  fatal  moment  as  long  as  he  could.  His  daughter's 
white  face  and  heavy  eyes  rilled  him  with  a  keen  sense  of 
sorrow. 

"  I  shall  soon  be  back,  my  darling,"  he  said,  trying  to 
speak  lightly;  and  then  he  broke  down  altogether,  and 
tears  filled  his  eyes,  and  his  voice  died  on  his  lips.  He 
said  no  more,  but  held  his  daughter  in  a  close  embrace : 
she  was  then  the  braver  of  the  two. 

"  The  years  pass  quickly,"  she  observed,  "  and  you  will 
be  away  for  only  two.  Look  at  me,  papa,  so  that  you  may 
remember  the  last  look  on  my  face  was  a  smile." 

She  did  smile,  poor  child,  with  white  quivering  lips, 
but  the  smile  was  far  more  pitiful  than  any  tears  could 
have  been.  When  Sir  Leonard  was  gone,  her  self-control 
gave  way ;  she  flung  herself  on  the  thick  grass  and  wept 
with  passionate  tears  for  the  father  who  would  never  be  the 
same  to  her  again,  for  the  home  where  she  was  no  longer 
to  act  as  mistress — wept  for  the  power  and  position  that 
were  to  be  hers  no  more.  It  was  bitterly  hard,  after  ab- 
solute power,  to  be  treated  like  a  child.  Passionate  tears 
came  from  her  which  did  not  soften  her  heart,  but  hardened 
it  against  the  lady  whom  she  considered  the  chief  cause  of 
her  sorrow. 

She  foresaw,  with  all  the  keen  perception  of  youth,  the 
change  there  would  be  in  her  life  ;  and  even  during  the  first 
pang  of  grief  for  her  father's  loss,  something  like  a  re- 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


43 


proach  formed  itself  in  her  mind  concerning  his  past 
treatment. 

"  Why,"  she  thought,  "  has  he  given  me  my  unrestrained 
liberty  for  so  many  years,  only  to  take  it  from  me  at 
last?" 

Life  did  not  seem  to  her,  when  she  rose  from  the  place 
where,  in  the  wild  tempest  of  grief,  she  had  flung  her- 
self, to  hold  one  single  charm.  She  had  loved  her  father ; 
he  was  gone  from  her,  and  when  he  returned  it  would  be 
to  marry.  She  had  loved  her  home,  and  her  own  fantas- 
tic rule  there — that,  too,  had  passed  away.  There  was 
nothing  before  her  but  to  submit  to  the  rule  of  a  strange 
woman.  It  was  intolerably  hard.  She  felt  inclined  to 
wish  for  death  ;  but  the  Gordon  pride  came  to  her  aid. 
Miss  Digby  was  to  be  there  by  two ;  she  must  not  find  her 
weeping  or  sad.  Ethel  went  to  her  room,  and  as  far  as  she 
could,  removed  all  trace  of  tears.  She  dressed  herself  with 
unusual  care  ;  she  gave  orders  for  the  needful  packing  with 
a  calm,  clear,  steady  voice,  and  then  sat  down  to  await 
Miss  Digby's  arrival. 

"  Henceforward,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  I  am  to  be 
second  in  my  father's  house.  A  stranger  takes  my  mother's 
place  as  well  as  mine.  She  will  triumph  over  me ;  she  wiil 
laugh  to  think  how  easily  she  has  deposed  me  ;  but,  suffer 
as  I  may,  no  sign  of  my  suffering  shall  she  discover." 

When  Helen  Digby  arrived  soon  afterward,  full  of  sym- 
pathy and  kindness,  ready  to  give  all  the  attention  and  af- 
fection that  she  thought  would  be  needed,  her  reception 
rather  startled  her.  She  would  not  allow  any  one  to  an- 
nounce her. 

"  Tell  me  where  Miss  Gordon  is,"  she  said,  "  and  I  will 
go  to  her. 

She  walked  through  the  splendid  suite  of  rooms  where 
one  day  she  was  to  reign  as  mistress.  She  found  Ethel 
sitting  in  one  of  the  pretty  light  balconies  that  looked  on  to 


44  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

the  terrace.  She  went  gently  to  her,  and  laid  her  hand 
with  a  quiet,  caressing  touch  on  the  girl's  shoulder. 

"  My  dearest  Ethel,"  she  said,  "  I  have  hastened  to  you 
knowing  that  you  would  be  so  lonely  and  unhappy. 
What  can  I  do  to  comfort  you  ? " 

Her  eyes  shone  brightly  through  her  tears  ;  her  whole 
face  was  beautiful  from  its  warmth  and  kindliness.  She 
saw  the  crimson  flush  rise  on  Ethel's  brow.  She  would  fain 
have  taken  the  girl  in  her  kind  arms  and  kissed  her  face, 
but  Ethel  rose  with  quiet  dignity,  and  said,  coldly, — 

"  Good-morning,  Miss  Digby ;  I  did  not  expect  you  so 
soon." 

"  I  feared  you  might  be  lonely,  Ethel,  so  I  hastened  to 
you." 

"  Thank  you,"  was  the  dignified  reply.  «  I  shall  feel 
lonely  until  papa  returns,  and  no  one  can  comfort  me." 

But  Miss  Digby  was  not  to  be  repulsed  easily ;  she  sat 
down  by  Ethel's  side,  and  would  not  notice  the  girl's  shrink- 
ing from  her. 

"  I  hope  that  the  plan  of  going  to  St.  Ina's  to-day 
pleases  you,  Ethel,"  she  said,  gently  ;  "  I  suggested  it  to 
Sir  Leonard  because  I  thought  the  sooner  you  left  Foun- 
tayne  the  better.  Can  I  do  anything  to  help  you  to  pack 
or  prepare  for  the  journey  ?  " 

"  My  maid  has  done  that  already,  I  thank  you,"  re- 
turned Ethel. 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  to  make  you  happier 
— to  lessen  your  sorrow — to  make  the  time  pass  more 
cheerfully  ? " 

"  Nothing,  I  thank  you,"  was  the  chilling  reply. 

But  Miss  Digby  was  not  to  be  daunted.  Some  would 
have  turned  from  the  cold,  averted  face,  and  have  left 
Ethel  to  herself — not  so  Helen — she  was  faithful  to  her 
trust. 

"  I  wish,  Ethel,"  she  said,  "  that  I  had  the  gift  of  elo 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  4,5 

quence.  I  should  like  to  tell  you  some  of  the  thoughts 
that  are  passing  through  my  mind — how  anxious  I  am  for 
your  happiness  and  welfare,  how  gravely  I  look  upon  the 
precious  charge  that  your  father  has  intrusted  to  me,  how 
ready  I  am  to  wait  upon  you,  to  render  you  every  service 
in  my  power  by  night  or  day — indeed  to  devote  my  time, 
my  thoughts,  all  to  you." 

"  I  thank  you,"  responded  Ethel,  still  more  coldly. 

It  was  hard  to  resist  such  kindness,  but  the  woman  who 
offered  it  was  the  one  who  intended  to  usurp  her  place  in 
her  father's  heart  and  in  his  home.  She  would  have  suf- 
fered anything  rather  than  accept  it,  just  as  she  would  have 
suffered  anything  rather  than  allow  Helen  Dig  by  to  note 
her  pain. 

"  I  do  not  wonder  that  you  should  regret  leaving  Foun- 
tayne,"  said  the  gentle  voice  again;  "it  is  a  beautiful 
place." 

Not  to  Miss  Digby  would  she  admit  even  the  least  regret. 

"  Change  is  always  pleasant,  I  believe,"  she  returned ; 
"  Fountayne  is  not  the  only  beautiful  place  in  the  world." 

She  would  not  say  how  dearly  she  loved  it,  how  perfect 
she  thought  it,  nor  how  for  the  remainder  of  her  life  a  dark 
cloud  would  hang  over  it.  It  would  no  longer  be  her  home 
— sacred  to  herself  and  those  she  loved  ;  it  would  be  des^ 
ecrated  by  strangers,  spoiled  by  the  new  rule  and  the  new 
love  her  father  would  bring  thither. 

With  a  wistful  smile  Helen  Digby  looked  at  the  beau- 
tiful, defiant  face. 

"  How  am  I  to  reach  your  proud  heart,  Ethel  ?  "  she 
inquired.  "  How  am  I  to  soften  you  and  make  you  be- 
lieve in  my  sincerity  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  see  that  your  sincerity  concerns  me,"  re- 
plied Ethel,  haughtily.  "  Do  you  not  think,  Miss  Digby, 
that  it  is  time  we  began  our  preparations  ?  You  will 
pardon  me,  perhaps,  if  I  leave  you." 


46  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

It  was  not  anger  that  flushed  the  face  of  Helen  Digby 
—no  feeling  of  anger  rose  in  her  heart  against  the  spoiled 
child  who  resented  her  coming  so  greatly — nothing  but  a 
profound  sense  of  pity,  which  moved  her  almost  to  tears, 
Ethel's  calmness  did  not  deceive  her.  She  understood 
perfectly  the  cold  exterior. 

"  If  I  could  but  win  her  liking !  "  she  thought. 

But  it  was  not  to  be.  Ethel  bade  farewell  to  the  ser- 
vants, who  seemed  grieved  and  distressed  at  parting  with 
her.  She  said  farewell  to  the  home  where  for  so  many 
years  she  had  been  beloved  and  happy.  It  was  a  bright 
afternoon  when  she  left  Fountayne  ;  and  unconsciously, 
she  left  the  brightness  and  happiness  of  her  life  behind 
her. 

They  had  a  pleasant  journey  through  the  beautiful 
country  that  lay  between  Fountayne  and  St.  Ina's  Bay. 
During  the  greater  part  of  the  time  Ethel  looked  out  of 
the  carriage  windows  ;  it  was  impossible,  from  her  beauti- 
ful, cold,  indifferent  face,  to  guess  the  nature  of  her 
thoughts.  At  the  different  stations  where  they  stopped, 
people  looked  in  wonder  at  the  lovely  girl  whose  proud, 
bright  eyes  seemed  to  glance  at  everything  so  calmly  and 
indifferently,  whom  nothing  seemed  to  interest,  who  re- 
ceived with  such  haughty  nonchalance  all  the  admiring 
glances  bent  on  her.  What  were  they  worth  ?  What  was 
all  the  world  to  her,  whose  heart  was  aching  with  a  storm 
of  pride,  sorrow,  and  love  ? 

Ethel  was  not  wanting  in  politeness  to  Miss  Digby  ; 
she  replied  to  all  her  remarks,  and  with  quiet  grace  re- 
ceived every  little  attention  the  elder  lady  offered  her. 
Helen  Digby  would  rather  have  seen  her  angry,  sullen, 
impatient — anything  rather  than  so  coldly  indifferent.  It 
was  useless  to  try  to  move  her.  Helen  made  no  more  at- 
tempts to  win  her  confidence.  "  It  will  come  in  time,"  she 
thought ;  "  I  shall  only  make  her  angry  if  I  persevere." 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  47 

Ethel,  preserving  the  calm  on  her  face,  allowed  the  dark, 
evil  spirit  of  hatred  to  enter  her  heart  ;  sitting  there  out- 
wardly calm,  her  face  cold  and  severe,  her  words  few  and 
colder  still,  there  was  a  fitful  volcano  of  wrath  in  her  soul. 
She  felt  angry,  fiercely  angry,  with  her  father,  Helen 
Digby,  and  all  the  world  besides  ;  it  was  anger  that  could 
find  no  vent  in  words — that  would  not  seek  relief  in  speech. 
Yet  Ethel  Gordon  was  naturally  a  noble  girl,  proud  and 
generous  of  nature,  frank,  truthful,  and  pure  of  soul  ;  but 
she  had  been  badly  trained.  She  had  been  allowed  to 
grow  up  with  her  faults  unchecked,  and  the  after  result  was 
long  years  of  bitter,  unavailing  sorrow  such  as  fall  to  the 
lot  of  few. 


48  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  Queen's  Hotel  at  St.  Ina's  Bay  was  different  fron; 
other  places  of  the  kind.  St.  Ina's  itself  was  a  pretty, 
picturesque  town,  built  at  the  foot  of  cliffs  almost  hidden 
by  green  foliage.  The  broad  expanse  of  blue  water,  the 
golden  sands,  the  winding  walks  up  the  cliffs,  the  pure  salt 
breeze,  the  quiet  that  seemed  to  shield  the  pretty  town, 
attracted  visitors — but  they  were  of  a  peculiar  kind.  There 
were  no  brass  bands  to  enliven  the  promenades,  there  was 
no  pier,  there  were  no  assembly-rooms  or  circulating 
libraries  with  their  facilities  for  gossip  and  flirtation  ;  St. 
Ina's  had  none  of  those  seaside  attractions.  The  visitors 
who  came  thither  were  grave,  elderly  people,  tired  of  the 
noise  and  bustle  of  the  world,  thoughtful  men  who  came 
to  study,  artists  who  wanted  smiling,  sunny  landscapes,  the 
wearied  and  sorrowful  who  wished  for  rest. 

No  place  in  England  was  less  known  than  St.  Ina's 
Bay.  If  any  one  wished,  for  any  reason  whatsoever,  to 
find  seclusion — to  be,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  world — the  only 
thing  needful  was  a  visit  to  St.  Ina's  Bay.  No  newspaper, 
with  its  tell-tale  column  of  visitors,  was  ever  published 
there.  People  came  to  St.  Ina's,  remained  there  for  a  few 
weeks  or  months,  and  then  away,  and  no  one,  perhaps,  ex- 
cept the  mistress  of  the  house  where  they  had  been  stay- 
ing, ever  knew  their  names. 

The  Queen's  Hotel  had  once  been  St.  Ina's  Hall,  the 
residence  of  a  wealthy  gentleman,  who  at  his  death  left 
orders  that  it  should  be  sold,  and  the  proceeds  from  the 
sale  divided  among  the  London  hospitals.  It  was  pur- 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  49 

chased  by  a  company,  who  decided  to  transform  it  into  a 
first-class  hotel.  It  was  a  grand  old  mansion,  standing  in 
the  midst  of  fine  grounds.  There  were  a  small  pine-wood 
which  ran  down  to  the  sea,  and  a  broad,  deep  lake  with 
water-lilies  floating  on  its  calm  breast  ;  there  were  groves 
formed  by  blossoming  lime-trees,  and  large  cedars,  the 
shade  of  which  formed  a  most  beautiful  summer  retreat ; 
there  were  picturesque  paths  under  the  trees,  where 
flowers  grew  in  richest  abundance  ;  there  were  graceful 
fountains,  the  silvery  spray  of  which  rose  high  amid  the 
dark-green  foliage. 

The  Queen's  Hotel  was  one  of  the  fairest  homes  in 
England,  but  as  a  commercial  speculation  it  had  com- 
pletely failed.  The  company  had  offered  it  several  times 
for  sale,  but  no  one  seemed  to  care  in  the  least  about  buy- 
ing it ;  so  that  from  year  to  year  it  struggled  on,  sometimes 
paying  its  expenses,  but  more  often  leaving  a  deficiency 
for  the  company  to  meet.  Some  of  the  shareholders  had 
suggested  building  a  pier  and  a  library  ;  others  declared 
that  it  was  useless  "  to  throw  good  money  after  bad.  " 

Notwithstanding  this  commercial  drawback,  the 
Queen's  Hotel  was  a  favorite  resort  with  those  who  wished 
for  quiet  and  repose.  Miss  Digby  had  chosen  it  because 
her  most  intimate  friend,  Lady  Stafton,  was  staying  there. 
To  those  who  cared  only  for  a  beautiful  sea,  picturesque 
scenery,  pure,  bracing  air,  and  quiet,  it  was  the  finest  spot 
in  England.  Those  who  wished  for  society  would  find 
none  there. 

The  rooms  were  large  and  lofty,  the  corridors  broad 
and  light ;  the  hotel,  as  a  whole,  was  quiet  and  peaceful  as 
any  gentleman's  house.  Ethel  could  not  help  liking  the 
aspect  of  the  place,  although  the  silence  and  loneliness 
somewhat  dismayed  her. 

"I  thought,"  she  said  to  Miss  Digby,  "that  hotels 
were  always  full  of  people  ;  this  seems  quite  empty,  " 


£0  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  It  was  for  that  reason  I  selected  it,  "  replied  the  elder 
lady.  "  I  have  been  here  several  times,  and  have  enjoyed 
as  much  privacy  as  though  I  had  been  in  my  own  home. 
I  hope  you  will  not  dislike  the  quiet,  Ethel. " 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  but  little  moment  to  me — all  places 
are  alike,  "  returned  Miss  Gordon. 

Yet,  after  a  few  days,  she  found  the  life  not  unpleasant. 
Miss  Digby  left  her  very  much  to  her  own  devices.  She 
had  wished,  at  first,  that  they  should  share  the  same  rooms  ; 
but  Ethel's  manner  convinced  her  how  unpleasant  she 
would  consider  such  an  arrangement,  so  separate  suites 
were  ordered — one  for  Miss  Gordon,  and  one  for  Miss 
Digby.  Miss  Digby's  rooms  were  close  to  those  occupied 
by  Lady  Stafton. 

It  was  not  an  unpleasant  life,  but  coming  there  at  all 
-was  a  mistake.  Ethel  was  young ;  she  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  a  life  of  constant  activity,  to  plenty  of  society,  to 
the  occupation  and  excitement  always  attending  the  man- 
agement of  a  large  house  ;  now  she  had  nothing  to  fall 
back  upon,  nothing  to  distract  her  thoughts,  nothing  to 
do  but  to  muse  by  night  and  by  day  on  the  injury  she  im- 
agined Helen  Digby  to  have  done  her. 

It  was  hardly  the  life  to  have  chosen  for  a  young, 
beautiful,  gifted,  imaginative  girl ;  for  once,  clear,  calm- 
judging  Helen  Digby  had  made  a  mistake.  She  would 
have  done  far  better  to  take  Ethel  to  some  seaside  resort, 
.where  the  world  would  have  roused  her  from  her  morbid 
thought,  and  have  restored  her  gayety,  her  animation,  and 
her  high  spirits. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  fife  Ethel  Gordon  found  her- 
self alone  ;  for  she  had  shunned  and  avoided  Miss  Digby 
as  much  as  possible.  She  had  been  accustomed  to  the 
homage  and  attention  of  a  large  household,  to  the  tender 
love  of  a  father  who  never  neglected  her ;  now  she  was 
alone,  with  strange  faces  around  her,  strange  voices  in 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  5 1 

her  ear.  She  had  been  accustomed  to  be  first ;  everything 
and  every  one  had  depended  on  her ;  now  it  was  otherwise. 
She  had  no  power  and  no  influence.  No  one  consulted 
her,  her  opinion  was  never  sought.  Lady  Stafton  had 
given  Helen  Digby  what  she  considered  sound  advice. 

"I  see  exactly  how  matters  stand,  "  she  said,  "  and  my 
counsel  to  you  is — leave  the  young  girl  alone.  Your 
kindness  must  in  the  end  make  its  way.  With  a  haughty 
disposition  like  hers,  the  best  way  is  to  treat  her  with 
kindly  indifference.  The  time  will  come  when  she  will 
seek  you,  not  you  her.  " 

And  Helen,  hoping  it  would  be  for  the  best,  watched 
the  beautiful  face  in  silence,  looking  day  by  day  for  some 
little  mark  of  affection,  but  never  receiving  it — hoping 
that  all  would  end  well,  yet  turning  away  with  a  shudder- 
ing dread  lest  evil  might  follow. 

It  was  something  like  hatred  that  Ethel  felt  for  the 
lady  who  was  to  take  her  place.  It  was  hard  enough  to 
lose  her  father,  to  be  away  from  Fountayne,  but  it  was 
harder  still  to  know  that  when,  he  returned  he  would 
belong  to  some  one  else,  that  he  would  give  all  the  love, 
the  care,  the  thought  that  she  had  valued  so  highly  to 
another. 

If  something  would  but  happen  to  prevent  the  mar- 
riage !  Yet  she  wished  no  particular  harm  to  Miss  Digby. 
If  by  raising  her  finger  she  could  have  injured  her,  she 
would  not  for  worlds  have  done  so ;  but  she  longed  for 
something  to  happen — something  that  should  lower  Miss 
Digby  in  her  father's  estimation — that  should  make  him 
think  less  highly  of  her  prudence  and  her  discretion. 

Self-engrossed  as  the  visitors  were,  they  could  not  fail 
to  notice  the  beautiful,  wistful  face  of  the  girl,  with  its 
listless,  weary  expression  ;  she  appeared  so  young — she 
was  only  just  seventeen — yet  her  features  had  a  tired  look 
as  though  she  had  not  found  life  very  bright. 


5  2  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

The  sweet  summer  days  glided  on.  Ethel  and  Miss 
Digby  met  always  at  breakfast,  which  was  served  in  the 
ladies'  room.  At  first  Helen  Digby  had  made  an  effort  to 
spend  the  days  with  her  young  charge.  Ethel  would  not 
have  it  so ;  she  would  either  retreat  to  her  own  pretty 
sitting-room,  or  say  distinctly  that  she  was  going  out,  and 
wished  to  be  alone.  If  the  place  had  been  more  fre- 
quented, Miss  Digby  would  never  have  allowed  the  young 
girl  to  fall  into  the  habit  of  wandering  alone  ;  but,  as  Lady 
Stafton  said — and  Miss  Digby  agreed  with  her — Ethel 
might  walk  about  the  cliffs  for  years  in  St.  Ina's  and  not 
meet  any  one. '  There  could  be  no  danger,  and  it  pleased 
her,  so  Miss  Digby  did  not  interfere. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE-. 


53 


CHAPTER  IX. 

IT  was  a  warm,  beautiful  evening;  the  sea-breeze 
swept  over  the  pine-woods,  and  mingled  with  the  perfume 
of  the  flowers ;  the  waves  broke  and  spread  out  in  great 
sheets  of  white  foam — they  rose  and  fell  like  the  change 
in  some  grand  harmony.  The  sun  shone  over  the  sea 
until  it  resembled  a  sheet  of  heaving,  restless,  glittering 
gold. 

On  the  lawn  of  the  hotel  the  visitors  were  standing  or 
sitting  in  little  groups — some  watching  the  shining  sea, 
others,  despite  the  beauty  of  earth  and  sky,  deeply  en- 
grossed in  books,  others  in  conversation.  Miss  Digby  was 
with  Lady  Stafton.  They  were  watching  the  waves,  and 
Ethel  sat  near  them,  the  fairest  picture  on  which  the  bright 
sun  shone.  The  evening  was  warm,  and  she  wore  a  white 
dress  of  some  shining  material,  richly  trimmed  with  gold 
fringe — a  fantastic  dress ;  but  Ethel  was  an  artist  in  dress 
as  in  everything  else.  The  dress  was  fastened  round  the 
slender  waist  by  a  gold  band,  and  fell  in  graceful  folds  to 
the  pretty  feet.  The  square-cut  bodice  gave  a  glimpse  of 
a  beautiful  neck,  white  and  well  molded  ;  a  red  rose  nestled 
close  to  it.  The  luxuriant  waves  of  rich  brown  hair  were 
loosely  arranged — they  were  gathered  back  from  the  fair 
brow,  and  fastened  with  a  golden  arrow ;  a  rose  lay  in 
their  sunny  depths.  No  fairer  picture  was  ever  conceived 
by  an  artist,  or  set  forth  by  a  poet. 

Ethel  was  not  joining  in  the  conversation — her  eyes 
lingered  on  the  golden,  glittering  sea.  She  was  wishing 
that  she  was  far  away  over  the  restless  waters — that  she 
was  in  any  other  place  and  with  any  other  people.  Those 


cj4  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

who  passed  near  her  wondered  at  the  listless  expression 
of  the  beautiful  young  face.  Her  folded  hands  lay  still. 
But  for  the  faint  stir  in  the  leaves  of  the  red  rose,  as  it  rose 
and  fell  with  each  breath,  one  might  have  fancied  her 
sleeping. 

Little  did  she  imagine  that  she  was  keenly  watched  by 
a  pair  of  dark  eyes  that  belonged  to  a  handsome  debonnair 
face.  That  same  evening  had  brought  a  stranger  to  the 
Queen's  Hotel,  who  wrote  his  name  Laurie  Nugent,  Esq., 
and  who  seemed  to  have  a  well-filled  purse,  and  was  on 
that  account  made  very  welcome  by  the  manager  and  his 
satellites.  Mr.  Nugent  had  declined  to  enter  the  larger 
dining-room,  where  most  of  the  guests  were  dining,  but  he 
had  ordered  a  recherche  little  repast  to  be  served  to  him  in 
his  own  room.  Then  he  asked  to  look  at  the  visitors' 
book  ;  the  manager,  with  a  low  bow,  showed  it  to  him. 

"  Shall  you  have  many  more  guests  this  season,  do  you 
think  ? "  asked  Mr.  Nugent,  with  a  careless  smile. 

No,  the  manager  feared  not.  They  had  been  pretty 
fortunate  in  May ;  in  June  they  had'had  very  few ;  July, 
still  fewer ;  and  it  was  seldom  that  any  one  came  in  Au- 
gust. A  satisfied  expression  came  over  the  handsome 
face. 

"  I  think  it  is  very  probable,"  said  Mr.  Nugent,  "that 
if  I  like  the  place,  I  may  remain  here  for  some  little  time." 

The  manager  was  pleased  to  hear  it,  paid  great  atten- 
tion to  the  wines  selected  for  the  stranger's  dinner,  and 
told  him  how  pleasantly  the  evenings  could  be  spent  in 
the  grounds.  Mr.  Nugent  went  thither  ;  he  looked  indif- 
ferently on  the  clear  waters  and  the  blue  sky,  but  a  sudden 
fire  flashed  in  his  eyes  as  they  fell  upon  the  features  of 
Ethel  Gordon  sitting  under  the  lime-trees. 

"  What  a  beautiful  girl  !  "  he  thought  to  himself.  "  Who 
is  she  ? " 

He  stood  still  and,  watched  her  with  charmed  eyes. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


55 


He  noticed  the  proud  carriage  of  the  rich  brown  head,  the 
superb  beauty  of  the  girlish  face,  the  grace  and  symmetry 
of  the  perfect  figure. 

"  Who  is  she  ? "  he  repeated.  "  And  what  can  she  be 
doing  here  ?  " 

Still  watching  her  intently,  he  noted  how  indifferent 
she  was  to  everything  around  her — how  motionless  she  sat, 
her  eyes  never  for  one  moment  leaving  the  great  expanse 
of  water.  He  noted  the  tired,  listless  expression  on  the 
exquisite  face — the  shadow  in  the  beautiful  eyes. 

"  She  is  not  happy,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  If  she  were 
— if  her  eyes  were  lighted  up  and  her  lips  smiled — she 
would  be  simply  irresistible.  What  can  make  her  look  so 
sad  ?  At  her  age  she  ought  to  be  all  smiles  and  blushes." 

Once  he  saw  the  two  ladies  near  her  address  her.  She 
raised  her  eyes,  but  no  light  came  into  them,  and  when 
she  had  replied  to  the  questions  asked,  they  turned  again 
toward  the  lake. 

"  Those  are  her  friends,  and  she  does  not  like  them — 
she  is  not  happy  with  them,"  was  his  second  comment. 

Then  he  watched  her  again,  until  the  evening  began  to 
close  around  them,  and  the  three  ladies  went  in. 

"  I  shall  never  rest  until  I  know  who  she  is  and  all 
about  her,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  I  hardly  like  to  own  such 
a  thing — I  who  have  seen  some  of  the  loveliest  girls  in 
England,  and  cared  for  none  of  them — but  I  believe,  hon- 
estly, I  am  in  love  at  last." 

He  laughed  to  himself,  and,  though  his  mouth  was 
handsome,  that  laugh  was  not  pleasant  to  hear. 

"  It  would  be  a  strange  thing,"  he  mused,  "  and  shows 
the  expediency  of  taking  fortune  at  the  right  turn." 

Mr.  Nugent  remained  in  the  grounds  until  the  dew  fell 
on  the  grass  and  flowers,  and  then  went  slowly  indoors.  A 
handsome  fee  that  brightened  the  waiter's  face,  and  a  few 
discreet  questions,  so  adroitly  asked  that  they  seemed  per- 


$6  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

fectly  innocent,  obtained  for  him  all  the  information  that 
he  required. 

"  Ethel  Gordon/'  he  muttered  r->  himself—"  the  beauti- 
ful name  suits  the  beautiful  face."  He  repeated  it  again 
and  again.  "  Ethel  Gordon — Etfol,  with  the  sad  sweet 
eyes  and  the  sad  sweet  face — if  I  o-'  dd  only  make  her  love 
me — if  I  could  only  win  one  smile  from  her — sweet  Ethel 
Gordon." 

The  name  seemed  to  have  a  charm  for  him.  He  fell 
asleep  that  night  repeating  it  as  one  ^peats  the  words  of 
some  haunting  song. 

The  next  morning  he  rose  early.  Out  in  the  grounds 
he  gathered  a  bouquet  of  fairest  roses  ;  *he  dew  was  lying 
on  them,  and  every  leaf  seemed  full  of  perfume.  With 
another  bribe,  even  heavier  than  the  first,  *he  waiter  con- 
sented to  have  the  bouquet  conveyed  to  Miss  Gordon's 
room. 

"  Be  particular,  and  do  not  mention  from  whom  you  re- 
ceived it." 

The  waiter  in  his  turn  bribed  a  chambermaid  ;  and, 
when  Ethel  rose,  one  of  the  first  things  she  saw  upon  her 
toilet-table  was  a  superb  bouquet  of  roses,  and  on  the 
paper  infolding  them  she  read,  in  strange,  quaint  charac- 
ters, the  words,  "  Sweets  to  the  sweet."  She  took  up  the 
roses,  and  looked  at  them  wonderingly.  Who  had  cared 
sufficiently  for  her  to  send  her  these  ?  She  had  been  at  the 
hotel  so  many  weeks,  and  no  one  had  ever  appeared  to 
recognize  her.  Who  had  risen  to  gather  these  beautiful  roses 
for  her  ?  Who  had  written  those  pretty  words — "  Sweets  to 
the  sweet." 

It  did  not  enter  her  mind  that  it  was  an  admirer,  a  lover. 
Such  a  possibility  never  occurred  to  Ethel.  That  some  day 
there  would  come  to  her  a  vague,  beautiful  dream  called 
love  she  felt  intuitively  ;  that  there  would  come  a  fairy 
prince,  who  would  change  all  the  world  for  her,  making  it 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  5  7 

doubly  fair  and  doubly  bright,  she  also  felt,  and  she  thought 
of  it  with  a  softened  light  in  her  eyes  and  a  crimson  blush 
on  her  fair  face.  The  happy  time  would  come,  for  it  came 
once  in  every  one's  life — when,  she  did  not  know.  She 
had  felt  no  want  in  her  life  ;  her  father's  love  and  her  own 
pretty,  fantastic  will  had  more  than  filled  it.  No  voice  in 
her  heart  had  cried  out  to  her  that  her  life  was  unfinished 
because  love  had  formed  no  part  of  it.  The  joyous  time 
would  come,  sooner  or  later  and  that  beautiful,  distant 
golden  future  had  a  greater  charm  for  her  than  flirtations 
and  lovers  had  for  other  girls. 

The  grandest  heritage  of  women  was  not  hers  yet — the 
love  that  suffers,  that  endures,  that  brings  with  it  keenest 
pain — the  love  that  makes  of  this  world  a  paradise  or  a 
purgatory — the  love  that  crowns  a  woman's  life  or  brings 
with  it  certain  death.  No  warning  came  to  her  from  the 
sweet  dewy  roses,  or  each  fragrant  leaf  might  have  cried, 
"  Beware  !  beware  !  " 

Mr.  Nugent  had  rightly  guessed  that  Miss  Gordon  was 
too  proud  to  question  the  servants  about  the  sender  of  the 
flowers.  She  held  them  in  her  white  hands,  she  inhaled 
their  luscious  perfume  ;  she  kissed  the  sweet  crimson 
leaves. 

"  You  come  from  a  friend,"  she  said  ;  :<  therefore  you 
are  welcome." 

She  hesitated  shyly  whether  she  should  place  one  of 
them  in  her  belt  or  in  her  hair ;  and  shyness  gained  the 
day.  She  left  them  in  her  room,  but  all  day  it  seemed  to 
her  that  she  had  a  friend  near  at  hand. 

Laurie  Nugent  laid  his  plans.  He  had  determined 
upon  a  floral  siege ;  if  Miss  Gordon  were  inclined  to  ro- 
mance— as  from  her  face  he  expected — this  silent  fragrant 
wooing  would  have  a  great  charm  for  her,  He  watched 
her  that  day  in  silent  admiration,  yet  keeping  out  of  her 
sight. 


58  REPENTED  A  T  .LEISURE. 

The  next  morning  Ethel  found  on  her  table  a  bouquet 
of  lilies,  fair,  white,  and  odorous,  but  on  the  paper  that  in- 
folded them  was  written  no  word.  Her  wonder  increased, 
who  was  there  that  cared  enough  about  her  to  send  her 
such  lovely  flowers  ?  It  could  not  be  Miss  Digby. 

"  I  should  hate  them  if  I  thought  they  came  from  her," 
she  said  to  herself. 

Her  face  flushed,  and  her  eyes  flashed.  She  would 
have  trampled  the  delicate  lilies  under  foot  if  Helen 
Digby's  hand  had  gathered  them.  But  it  could  not  be  so. 
Miss  Digby  was  kind,  courteous,  and  graceful ;  still  she 
would  never  have  thought  of  anything  so  sentimental  as 
sending  flowers  steeped  in  the  early  morning  dew. 

On  the  morning  following  there  came  a  bouquet  more 
beautiful  still,  it  was  composed  of  large,  rich,  velvety 
heartseases ;  and  then  Ethel's  suspicions  were  aroused.  It 
must  be  some  one  who  admired  her.  Yet  she  had  seen 
no  one.  There  were  one  or  two  ladies  and  two  or  three 
elderly  married  gentlemen  staying  at  the  hotel.  It  could 
be  none  of  those.  Who  was  it  sent  the  flowers  ?  Ethel 
resolved  on  that,  the  third  day  of  receiving  them,  to  look 
carefully  around  and  take  more  interest  in  the  living 
world. 


REPENTED  A  7*  LEISURE, 


59 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  morning  was  too  warm  for  the  residents  at  the 
Queen's  Hotel  to  remain  indoors,  and  the  sea-breeze  was 
fresh  enough  to  moderate  the  heat  of  the  sun.  The  air 
seemed  filled  with  a  golden  haze  ;  it  was  almost  faint,  too, 
with  perfume.  The  aromatic  odor  of  the  pine-woods 
mingled  with  the  fragrance  of  the  lily  and  the  rose  ;  the 
bright-winged  butterflies  and  honey-bees  hovered  round  the 
flowers.  All  Nature  seemed  languid  in  the  great  warmth ; 
the  leaves  of  the  trees  never  stirred — the  flowers  were 
still. 

The  ladies  had  brought  out  their  books  and  fancy- 
work  ;  they  were  sitting  under  the  trees  where  the  sea- 
breeze  could  reach  them.  Miss  Digby  and  Lady  Stafton 
were  each  busily  and  happily  engaged  in  the  making  of 
some  beautiful  and  delicate  point-lace  ;  Ethel  had  brought 
out  a  volume  of  poems,  but  she  did  not  read  much — her 
attention  was  fixed  on  the  various  groups.  She  saw  no 
one  among  them,  however,  who  would  be  likely  to  send 
her  flowers. 

Presently  a  little  dog,  belonging  to  one  of  the  ladies, 
ran  barking  up  to  Miss  Digby  and  disarranged  her  work. 
She  had  a  nervous  fear  of  dogs,  and  uttered  a  little  cry  of 
dismay  when  she  saw  it.  The  next  moment  a  shadow  fell 
between  her  and  the  sunshine,  and  a  steady,  strong  hand 
drew  the  dog  away.  Looking  up,  Miss  Digby  saw  a 
tall,  handsome  man,  who  smiled  as  he  bowed. 

"  I  trust  you  are  not  frightened,  madam, "  he  said  ; 
"  dogs  should  not  be  allowed  to  go  unmuzzled  during  these 
fearfully  hot  days." 


60  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

Lady  Statfon  smiled — Miss  Digby  looked  slightly 
confused. 

"  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  confess  it,"  she  said,  "but 
I  am  very  much  afraid  of  them  in  all  weathers." 

The  new-comer  should  then,  perhaps,  have  left  them, 
but  he  seemed  disposed  to  linger  :  and  in  this  pleasant  al 
fresco  hotel  life  Lady  Stafton  did  not  think  it  needful  to  ob- 
serve the  strict  laws  of  etiquette.  The  trio  fell  into  a 
pleasant  conversation,  the  stranger  speaking  principally  of 
St.  Ina's  Bay.  Miss  Digby  agreed  with  much  that  he  said, 
and  during  all  the  time  he  never  once  looked  at  Ethel. 
He  never  looked  at  her,  but  he  was  conscious  of  her  every 
movement.  He  knew  that  the  bright,  proud  eyes  were 
looking  at  him — he  knew  that  the  beautiful  face  was  turned 
to  him — but  he  assumed  the  most  profound  unconscious- 
ness. 

"  Are  you  staying  here  for  any  time  ?  "  he  asked  Miss 
Digby. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  we  shall  remain  until  the  end  of 
the  autumn." 

"  It  seems  to  be  a  very  quiet  place,"  he  remarked.  "  I 
can  hardly  imagine  any  one  staying  here  except  in  search 
of  health." 

Lady  Stafton  smiled. 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  in  search  of  health  ?  "  she  said. 

The  handsome,  debonnair  face  flushed  faintly. 

"I  am  indeed,"  he  confessed.  "I  have  been  over- 
studying,  and  my  doctor  recommended  me  to  take  a  few 
weeks'  entire  rest.  He  also  recommended  a  quiet  place, 
so  I  chose  St.  Ina's  Bay." 

"You  could  not  have  done  better,"  observed  Miss 
Digby ;  and  then  she  smiled,  for  the  stranger's  eyes  were 
fixed  on  her  with  such  a  wistful  expression  that  she  could 
almost  guess  what  was  coming. 

"  If  you   would  not   think   me   intrusive,"   said    the 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  6 1 

stranger,  "  I  should  like  to  ask  permission  to  introduce 
myself.  I  have  been  so  lonely  here  during  the  last  few 
days  that  I  should  esteem  it  the  greatest  honor  and  the 
greatest  pleasure  to  be  allowed  to  have  the  privilege  of 
speaking  to  you  sometimes.  My  name  is  Laurie  Nugent. 
Lady  Stafton,  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  in  Lon- 
don at  Lady  Delamaine's." 

It  was  quite  a  random  shot — Mr.  Nugent  knew  that 
Lady  Delamaine  was  a  great  leader  of  fashion,  but  he  had 
never  entered  her  house — yet  it  quite  satisfied  Lady  Stafton. 

"  You  know  Lady  Delamaine  ? "  she  said.  "  She  is 
my  dearest  friend.  Are  you  one  of  the  Nugents  of  Flint- 
shire ? " 

"  I  am  related  to  them,"  he  replied  ;  "  but  I  have  not 
seen  much  of  them." 

It  was  so  carelessly  said  that  the  impression  left  on  his 
hearers  was  that  he  considered  himself  socially  the  supe- 
rior of  the  Nugents  of  Flintshire. 

Then  Lady  Stafton  asked  him  many  questions  concern- 
ing people  in  London  whom  she  supposed  him — as  a 
friend  of  Lady  Delamaine's — to  know,  all  of  which  he  ans- 
wered with  aplomb  and  self-possession.  His  pleasant 
small-talk  amused  them,  and  the  bright,  sunny  morning 
seemed  the  brighter  to  Ethel  for  his  being  there.  Still,  he 
had  never  looked  at  her,  but  his  position  with  the  two 
elderly  ladies  being  secure,  he  thought  he  might  venture 
to  steal  one  glance  at  her.  He  met  the  most  beautiful  and 
the  frankest  eyes  that  he  had  ever  seen  ;  they  were  look- 
ing intently  at  him,  the  golden  light  in  their  rich  depths 
deepening  as  she  looked.  He  thought  it  wiser  on  that  oc- 
casion to  restrict  his  attentions  entirely  to  the  elder  ladies. 

"  If  I  spoke  to  her  now,"  he  thought,  "  they  would  sus- 
pect that  I  had  taken  all  this  trouble  for  her  sake." 

One  glance  of  admiration,  full  of  fire,  full  of  passion, 
seemed  to  flash  from  the  depths  of  his  eyes  to  hers.  He  saw 


£2  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

her  face  grow  crimson,  and  then  he  dared  not  trust  himself 
to  look  again.  But  that  one  glance  had  sufficed  to  trouble 
the  calm,  still  depths  of  Ethel's  young  heart. 

Suddenly  an  idea  flashed  across  her  that  this  stranger, 
this  handsome  man,  whose  dark  eyes  had  seemed  to  flash 
that  strange  glance  into  hers,  was  the  one  who  had  sent  the 
flowers.  She  could  not  tell  why  she  thought  so,  but  it  was 
impossible  now  to  doubt  it.  Would  the  next  morning 
bring  the  floral  offering  ?  She  almost  longed  for  morning 
to  come  that  she  might  see  it. 

Laurie  Nugent  was  wise  enough  to  see  that  he  must 
not  presume  upon  the  kindness  of  the  ladies.  He  passed 
them  several  times  that  day  ;  on  each  occasion  it  was  with 
a  polite  bow,  but  without  a  word. 

Lady  Stafton  commented  upon  his  discreet,  well-bred 
manner. 

"  Some  men  would  have  been  insufferable  after  out 
kindness,"  she  said,  laughingly,  to  Miss  Digby  ;  "  but  he 
really  seems  almost  timid,  and  afraid  of  intruding.  I  am 
rather  inclined  to  like  him,  Helen." 

Miss  Digby  looked  at  him — he  was  walking  down  the 
terrace. 

"I  do  not  know."  she  returned,  half-doubtfully  ;  "  there 
is  something  in  his  face  that  I  can  hardly  like  or  trust." 

"  His  face  is  handsome  enough,"  observed  Lady 
Stafton. 

"  There  is  something  in  it  I  cannot  tell  what — that  does 
not  please  me,"  opposed  Miss  Digby.  "  It  is  not  a  face 
that  I  should  trust." 

Ethel  was  listening  intently  to  the  conversation ;  as 
usual,  the  spirit  of  contradiction  was  aroused  within  her. 
Whatever  Miss  Digby  said  must  be  wrong.  She  said 
nothing,  but  resolved  in  her  mind  to  show  her  disbelief  in 
Miss  Digby's  words.  A  false  face  !  It  was  the  hand- 
somest she  had  ever  seen — and  the  remembrance  of  that 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  63 

one  glance  from  the  dark  eyes  made  her  heart  beat.  It 
was  a  break  in  the  monotony  of  her  life — it  was  something 
agreeable  to  think  of — the  first  dawning  of  that  sun  that 
was  to  shine  so  brightly  for  a  time,  and  then  destroy  her. 

Laurie  Nugent  succeeded  beyond  his  wildest  hopes. 
"  Fortune  attends  those  who  know  how  to  wait,"  he  said 
to  himself,  and  he  never  lost  sight  of  the  fact ;  he  knew  how 
to  wait  with  patience.  For  the  next  two  or  three  days  he 
devoted  himself  exclusively  to  Lady  Stafton  and  Miss 
Digby,  only  acknowledging  by  a  bow  the  presence  of  the 
beautiful  Ethel.  He  was  well  satisfied  with  the  progress 
he  had  made,  when  one  day,  as  he  was  talking  to  Lady 
Stafton,  Ethel  came  to  ask  some  question  which  Miss 
Digby  required  to  be  answered.  Then  Mr.  Nugent  looked 
from  one  to  the  other  in  such  evident  expectation  of 
an  introduction  that  the  elder  lady  could  not  possibly 
refuse  it. 

There  were  few  words  spoken  when  Ethel  Gordon  was  in 
troduced  to  her  fate,  but  those  few  were  as  a  death-warrant. 
Mr.  Nugent  bowed  low,  murmured  something  which  she 
did  not  hear  plainly  ;  her  heart  beat,  her  hands  trembled, 
the  proud,  frank  eyes  drooped  before  his,  and  the  beauti- 
ful face  flushed,  and  then  grew  strangely  pale.  It  was  al- 
most a  solemn  moment  to  her,  for  it  seemed  like  the  com- 
pletion of  some  vague,  beautiful  dream. 

It  was  a  relief  to  her  to  hasten  away,  and  then  Lady 
Stafton  wondered  if  she  had  done  a  wise  thing. 

"It  must  be  all  right,"  she  said.  "  He  is  Lady  Dela- 
maine's  friend.  If  he  were  not  a  man  of  good  means,  he 
would  not  be  staying  here — a  gentleman  I  know  him  to  be 
— besides,  he  shows  no  sign  of  admiring  Ethel  Gordon." 

She  forgot  all  about  the  introduction  a  few  minutes 
afterward,  and  Laurie  Nugent  smiled  to  think  how  easily 
he  had  succeeded  in  winning  all  he  wanted.  He  could 
speak  to  Miss  Gordon  now,  when  he  met  her  in  the  grounds, 


64  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

without  any  breach  of  etiquette  ;  and  already  he  had  grown 
to  love  her  so  dearly,  so  entirely,  that  speaking  to  her  be- 
came the  one  great  need  of  his  life. 

For  he  owned  the  mastery  of  the  passionate  love  that 
had  taken  possession  of  him  so  suddenly.  He  had  at  first 
admired  only  the  beautiful  face  he  had  looked  at,  but, 
watching  it  until  its  loveliness  had  stolen  into  his  heart, 
he  learned  to  love  it  with  a  force  and  intensity  that  fright- 
ened himself. 

Love  came  to  Laurie  Nugent  like  a  fierce  tornado,  that 
swayed  his  heart  and  soul  as  the  whirlwind  sways  the  trees. 
He  said  to  himself  that,  cost  what  it  would,  let  his  life  be 
what  it  might,  let  right  or  wrong  rule,  let  the  price  be  high 
or  low,  he  would  win  her,  he  would  make  her  his  own. 
There  was  nothing  that  he  would  not  have  done  to  succeed ; 
he  would  have  hesitated  at  no  crime,  stopped  at  no  wrong. 
With  such  a  love  there  was  little  chance  of  escape  for  its 
object. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  65 


CHAPTER  XL 

Miss  DIGBY  had  not  succeeded  in  the  dearest  wish  of 
her  heart — the  wish  to  win  the  confidence  of  Ethel  Gordon. 
She  had  not  even  won  from  her  the  least  portion  of  liking 
Day  by  day,  as  she  felt  deeper  regret  at  parting  from  her 
father,  at  losing  her  position  at  home,  Ethel  felt  a  greater 
dislike  to  Helen  Digby — she  was  not  even  just  to  her. 

"  But  for  her,"  she  thought,  "  my  father  would  not  have 
been  so  anxious  to  make  money;  but  for. her,  he  might 
have  remained  in  England,  and  we  should  have  been  happy 
for  long  years  in  our  old  fashion.  I  shall  never  be  to  him 
again  what  I  have  been  ;  my  love  will  never  fill  his  life  as 
it  used." 

As  these  thoughts  gained  upon  her,  her  dislike  to  Helen 
Digby  increased ;  and  the  unfortunate  idea  returned  to  her 
that,  if  Sir  Leonard  could  only  be  brought  to  think  less 
highly  of  his  betrothed,  he  would  very  probably  abandon 
all  thought  of  the  marriage  ;  and  that  idea,  in  the  end, 
helped  her  to  her  sorrowful  fate. 

Early  in  August  letters  came  from  Sir  Leonard.  There 
was  one  for  Miss  Digby,  whose  kind,  calm  face  flushed 
with  pleasure  as  she  read  it ;  and  one  for  Ethel,  who  put 
it  quietly  away — she  would  not  read  it  in  the  presence  of 
her  rival.  Helen  Digby  opened  hers  at  once. 

"  Ethel,"  she  said,  looking  up  with  bright  eyes,  "  I  am 
so  pleased,  Sir  Leonard  has  reached  Vienna,  and  is  both 
well  and  happy." 

Not  to  the  rival  whom  she  detested  would  Ethel  con- 
descend to  say  how  glad  and  happy  such  news  made  her. 
She  returned  some  indifferent  reply,  which  Miss  Digby 
quite  understood. 


66  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  She  is  too  proud,  and  dislikes  me  too  much  even  to 
say  that  she  is  pleased,"  thought  the  lady. 

But  EthePs  exhibition  of  her  unconquered  feelings  did 
not  prevent  Miss  Digby  from  saying  kindly, — 

"  Will  you  not  read  your  letter  now,  Ethel  ?  It  may 
contain  some  news  of  interest." 

"  Thank  you,  I  will  wait ;  "  and  Ethel  finished  her  break- 
fast leisurely,  as  though  no  unsealed  letters  were  waiting 
to  be  read. 

Helen  Digby  sighed  deeply  as  the  young  girl  left  the 
room. 

"  If  she  would  but  be  less  proud,  less  reserved  with  me 
— if  she  would  but  learn  to  like  me,  even  ever  so  little — I 
should  not  have  a  cloud  in  my  sky." 

Ethel  went  out  that  she  might  read  her  letter  without 
interruption,  and  the  spot  she  chose  was  a  lovely  little  nook 
at  the  end  of  the  avenue  of  lime-trees,  where  the  clover 
grew  thick  and  fragrant,  where  wild  roses  and  harebells 
stirred  their  sweet  blossoms  in  the  sighing  wind,  and  where 
the  thick  foliage  of  the  trees  met  overhead  and  formed  an 
arch  beautiful  as  that  of  any  cathedral  aisle.  One  of  the 
trees  had  fallen  long  years  ago ;  it  lay  now  stretched 
across  the  path  ;  moss  and  ivy  covered  it,  sprays  of  wild 
flowers  clung  to  it,  and  this  little  nook,  beautiful  and  sol- 
itary as  though  it  belonged  to  some  other  sphere,  was 
Ethel's  favorite  resort, 

Thither  she  went  now  to  read  Sir  Leonard's  letter. 
She  kissed  the  seal  that  bore  his  crest — the  place  where 
she  thought  his  hand  had  rested — and  then  opened  the 
missive.  A  deep  shadow  came  over  the  beautiful  face  as 
she  read.  The  girl's  heart  was  hungering  for  love, 
for  sympathy.  She  had  hoped  her  father  would  write 
of  both,  but  the  letter  was  one  long  exhortation,  one  long 
piece  of  advice,  and  all  concerning  Miss  Digby. 

He  hoped  she  had  learned  to  love  her,  to  obey  her,  to 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  67 

look  forward  with  pleasure  to  the  happy  life  he  anticipated 
they  would  all  spend  together.  He  hoped  she  profited  by 
Miss  Digby's  teachings,  by  her  constant  intercourse  with 
one  so  amiable,  so  well-bred,  and  lady-like. 

A  bitter  smile  curved  the  proud  lips  as  she  read,  bitter 
scorn  and  anger  flushed  her  proud  face. 

"  Does  he  expect  that  I  find  her  perfect  as  he  does — 
the  woman  who  is  to  take  my  mother's  place — who  is  to 
usurp  my  own  ?  " 

Bitter,  angry  thoughts  surged  through  the  girl's  heart, 
which  ached  with  keenest  pain.  So,  although  he  was 
away  from  her,  although  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives  they 
had  been  parted,  his  thoughts  were  all  with  this  stranger 
who  was  henceforth  to  stand  between  them  !  It  was  one 
of  the  most  miserable  hours  of  her  life. 

"  I  had  thought  so  much  of  his  writing  to  me,"  she 
said  to  herself,  with  something  like  a  sob  ;  "  and,  now  that 
I  have  his  letter,  there  is  no  pleasure,  no  comfort  in  it — 
it  is  full  of  her.  She  darkens  the  world  for  me." 

Then,  as  though  in  condemnation  of  such  a  thought, 
the  wind  seized  one  of  the  sheets  of  paper,  and  whirled  it 
from  her  hands. 

The  next  moment  a  pair  of  dark  eyes  were  looking  in- 
to hers,  and  Laurie  Nugent,  standing  with  her  lost  sheet 
of  paper  in  his  hand,  was  bowing  before  her. 

"  I  must  thank  this  letter,  Miss  Gordon,"  he  said,  "  for 
an  opportunity  I  have  long  sought — the  opportunity  of 
speaking  to  you." 

She  took  the  letter  from  him,  with  a  few  murmured 
words  of  thanks  ;  and  then  Laurie  Nugent,  who  had  braved 
more  dangers  than  most  men,  stood  quite  at  a  loss  what 
to  say  next.  He  had  imagined  himself  alone  with  her  a 
thousand  times  and  in  his  fancy  he  was  always  pouring  out 
floods  of  eloquent  words — she  listening  with  drooping  eyes 
and  flushed  face.  Now  the  reality  for  which  he  had  longed 


68  PENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

was  his,  and  he  stood  before  her  in  silence,  the  words 
trembling  on  his  lips,  and  his  heart  beating  with  an  un- 
known fear,  a  strange  awe  upon  him — for  her  beauty  had 
completely  overpowered  him,  and  left  him  unable  to  speak. 

She  was  the  first  to  recover  herself.  It  was  new  to  her 
to  see  a  tall,  handsome  man  disconcerted  by  her.  She 
raised  her  frank,  proud  eyes  to  his  face,  and  then  he  saw 
the  traces  of  bitter  tears. 

"  Miss  Gordon,"  he  cried,  hastily,  "you  have  had  bad 
news,  I  am  afraid.  You  have  been  grieving  over  some- 
thing in  your  letter. 

His  voice,  so  full  of  sympathy,  seemed  to  touch  her. 
A  sudden  impulse  of  confidence  in  this  stranger  seized 
her. 

"  You  are  right,"  she  said.  "  I  have  been  longing  for 
the  letter,  and  now  that  it  has  come  I  am  disappointed." 

Her  lips  quivered,  and  the  strong  effort  she  was  mak- 
ing to  control  herself  drove  the  color  from  her  face.  He 
sat  down  by  her  side.  The  sight  of  that  beautiful  pale  face 
seemed  to  give  him  courage. 

"  How  I  wish  I  were  not  a  stranger,"  he  said  "  that  I 
might  be  able  to  help  you — to  say  something  that  might 
console  you." 

"  I  am  ashamed  of  myself,"  confessed  Ethel — "  most 
bitterly  ashamed  ;  but  my  disappointment  has  been  great." 

"  Let  me  try  to  help  you  to  forget  it,"  he  said.  "  This 
beautiful  world  is  smiling  all  around  us,  there  is  a  bright 
sky  above — let  us  enjoy  them  for  a  time,  and  forget 
trouble." 

With  firm,  gentle  touch,  which  she  made  no  attempt  to 
resist,  he  took  the  closely  written  sheets  from  her,  folded 
them  carefully,  and  then  gave  them  back  to  her. 

"  Place  the  cause  of  annoyance  out  of  sight,  Miss  Gor- 
don, and  you  will  forget  it ;  that  is  true  philosophy,  and 
the  proper  method  of  managing  all  things  disagreeable." 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  69 

His  peremptory  manner  rather  pleased  her  than  other- 
wise ;  she  looked  up  at  him  with  a  frank,  fearless  smile. 

"  Do  you  think  so,  Mr.  Nugent  ?  I  do  not  quite  agree 
with  you.  I  should  bring  all  disagreeable  things  to  the 
front,  look  them  boldly  in  the  face.  To  brave  battle  with 
them,  and  vanquish  them  one  by  one — that  seems  to  me 
truer  philosophy  than  yours." 

It  was  so,  and  the  remark  showed  plainly  as  words 
could  show,  the  difference  between  speaker  and  listener. 

"  I  will  learn  any  kind  of  philosophy  you  may  choose 
to  teach  me,  Miss  Gordon,"  returned  Laurie  Nugent ;  "  you 
shall  find  me  the  most  obedient  of  scholars.  I  would  be- 
lieve all  you  told  me,  do  all  you  bade  me,  think  as  you 
thought,  speak  as  you  spoke,  in  hope  of  but  one  reward." 

"  What  might  that  reward  t>e  ?  "  she  asked  smiling. 

"  One  kind  look  from  you,  and  one  kind  word — all  earth 
could  give  me  no  greater  reward  than  that." 

It  was  pleasant  to  sit  there  and  hear  such  kind  words ; 
it  was  pleasant  to  read  the  admiration  so  plainly  revealed 
in  those  dark  eyes  ;  it  was  the  first  gleam  of  happiness 
Ethel  had  known  since  Sir  Leonard  first  imparted  to  her 
the  fact  of  his  intended  marriage.  The  whole  scene  was 
so  fair  that  it  lived  in  her  memory  long  after  years  of  suf- 
fering had  blotted  out  other  pictures.  Ethel — proud,  frank, 
beautiful  Ethel — sat  drinking  in  the  first  deep  luscious 
draught  of  the  cup  that  was  to  prove  but  deadly  poison.  For 
the  first  time  in  her  young  life  she  listened  to  the  un- 
measured words  of  flattering  love,  and  they  did  not  dis- 
please her. 

Laurie  Nugent  was  a  clever  man,  quick  of  comprehen- 
sion ;  he  had  the  great  gift  of  understanding  character  and 
of  adapting  himself  to  the  people  into  whose  midst  he  was 
thrown.  He  misused  the  gift  terribly — even  fatally ;  but 
he  had  it  and  used  it  like  a  charm.  Although  he  had  ex- 
changed but  a  few  indifferent  words  with  Ethel,  he  under- 


fo  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

stood  her  perfectly  ;  he  did  not  know  how  she  came  to  be 
associated  with  Miss  Digby,  or  whether  they  were  related, 
but  he  saw  plainly  enough  that  Ethel  did  not  like  her,  and 
never  felt  at  ease  with  her.  He  showed  his  adroitness 
when,  after  talking  to  her  for  some  minutes,  he  asked,  with 
a  careless  smile, — 

"  Where  is  Miss  Digby  this  morning  ?  I  have  not  seen 
her." 

"  She  is  writing  letters,"  replied  Ethel ;  and  the  remem- 
brance of  the  letter  she  was  writing  darkened  the  beauti- 
ful face  and  shadowed  the  sweet,  bright  eyes. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  he  remarked,  with  a  careless 
laugh.  "  I  am  grateful  to  those  letters  ;  but  for  them  Miss 
Digby  would  be  here,  I  suppose — and  I  have  an  idea  that 
she  does  not  like  me." 

If  he  had  thought  the  matter  over  for  months  he  could 
not  have  said  anything  more  likely  to  answer  his  purpose 
than  that ;  all  the  love,  the  flattery,  the  eloquence  was  as 
nothing  compared  to  those  magical  words.  He  saw  the 
fair,  girlish  face  blush,  and  he  knew  they  had  taken 
effect. 

"  Miss  Digby  not  like  you  ? "  she  questioned,  slowly. 
"  Are  you  sure  of  that  ?  How  do  you  know  it  ?  " 

"  I  know  it  by  instinct,"  he  replied  ;  "  I  cannot  explain 
more  fully." 

He  knew  that  in  her  own  mind  she  was  saying  to  her- 
self that  she,  Ethel  Gordon,  would  like  him,  if  only  out  of 
opposition  to  Helen  Digby ;  yet  he  was  too  wise  and  too 
wary  to  pursue  the  subject. 

"  My  idea  is  that  we  cannot  control  our  likes  and  dis- 
likes/' he  added,  "  but  that  they  are  instinctive.  I  see 
some  persons,  and  my  heart  goes  out  to  them  with  a 
warmth  of  friendliness  which  words  are  weak  to  express. 
I  see  others,  and  do  not  even  like  them,  but  shun  them  if 
I  can." 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  7  r 

She  was  looking  intently  at  him. 

"  I  am  glad  you  say  so,"  she  observed  ;  "  my  experi- 
ence is  the  same.  I  find  that,  if  at  first  I  take  a  dislike 
to  any  one,  I  seldom  overcome  it." 

He  would  not  let  her  see  how  great  was  his  curiosity 
about  everything  connected  with  her.  He  was  long- 
ing to  know  why  she  was  there,  how  it  was  that  she  was 
associated  with  Miss  Digby,  to  what  family  of  Gordons 
she  belonged  ;  but  all  these  things,  he  said  to  himself,  he 
must  learn  by  degrees. 

He  pointed  to  the  pretty  harebells  growing  at  her  feet. 

"  Do  you  know  the  legend  attached  to  these  flowers  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  No.     I  have  not  heard  it." 

"  It  is  said  that  in  the  depths  of  each  of  these  little 
bells  a  fairy  resides,  and  that  on  quiet  moonlight  nights 
each  little  elf  leaves  its  home,  and  that  together  they  all 
ring  their  bells  with  a  peculiar  chime.  It  is  said  that 
travellers  belated  in  the  woods  have  heard  the  sweet,  faint 
fairy  music,  and  have  wondered  what  it  was." 

Her  face  brightened,  and  the  golden  light  deepened  in 
her  eyes. 

"  It  is  long  since  I  have  heard  any  pretty  legends,"  she 
said ;  "  tell  me  some  more." 

His  memory  must  have  been  well  stored  with  many  a 
quaint  and  graceful  fable.  He  told  her  German  legends 
of  the  dark  forests  and  of  the  spirits  who  lived  in  the  grand 
old  trees — of  the  elf-king  who  rides  on  the  night  wind,  of 
the  water-spirits  who  dwell  in  the  streams  ;  he  told  her 
many  a  fair  legend  of  Grecian  lore,  of  the  daphne  and  nar- 
cissus, of  the  hyacinth  and  the  rose — stories  that  took  her 
imagination  captive,  and  charmed  the  artistic,  beauty  loving 
mind.  She  forgot  that  he  was  a  stranger;  she  sat  with 
clasped  hands,  looking  into  his  face,  drinking  in  each  word 
as  ijt  fell  from  his  lips, 


7  2  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  You  must  be  a  poet,"  said  the  girl,  simply ;  and  for 
a  moment  an  expression  that  she  could  not  understand 
crossed  his  face.  Was  it  regret,  remorse,  pity  or  hesita- 
tion ?  She  could  not  tell,  and  almost  as  soon  as  she  had 
noticed  it  it  was  gone. 

"  I  am  not  a  poet,  Miss  Gordon,  but  I  admire  poetry, 
and  these  old  legends  have  always  had  a  great  charm  fof 
me.  You  judge  me  too  favorably.  I  am  a  man  of  the 
world — not  a  poet." 

She  repeated  the  words  after  him. 

"  A  man  of  the  world — that  means  a  man  clever  and 
shrewd  in  judgment,  quick,  versatile,  and  accomplished, 
does  it  not  ? "  she  asked, 

"  Viewed  favorably — yes,"  he  replied.  "  But  there  is 
one  thing,  Miss  Gordon,  which  makes  every  man  a  poet 
for  the  time." 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Love  for  a  fair  and  noble  woman.  Love  is  poetry — 
it  is  the  one  grand  passion  of  a  man's  life — it  refines, 
softens,  and  makes  beautiful  the  hardest  natures." 

"  What  must  it  do  to  the  poet  ?  "  she  asked  him,  with  a 
blush  and  a  smile  that  bewildered  him. 

"  It  fills  his  heart  so  entirely  that  it  overflows  in  song/' 
he  answered.  "  Thus  the  world  is  made  richer  by  a  poet's 
love.  Now,  Miss  Gordon,  have  you  forgotten  your  letter, 
and  your  tears  ?  " 

It  was  like  taking  her  from  a  fairyland  of  golden  light, 
of  sweetest  warmth  and  fragrance,  out  into  outer  darkness 
and  cold.  She  had  forgotten  all  her  troubles.  The 
glamor  of  a  sweet  dream  was  over  her.  The  light  that 
never  shown  over  land  or  sea  was  glowing  on  her  face. 

"  Have  you  been  telling  me  all  these  beautiful  stories 
to  make  me  forget  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  wanted  to  while  you  from  sad  and  sorrowful 
thoughts ;  sadness  and  sorrow  should  never  come  neat 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  73 

you.  You  ought  to  know  nothing  but  what  is  brightest  and 
most  beautiful.  Now  that  we  are  better  friends,  Miss 
Gordon,  will  you  tell  me  what  those  sorrowful  thoughts 
were  ?  Perhaps  I  can  help  you  still  more." 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,"  she  replied,  hurriedly.  "  I  have 
been  so  cruelly  disappointed  in  one  I  love." 

She  did  not  notice  that  his  handsome  face  had  lost  its 
color — that  his  lips  trembled. 

"  And  that  some  one,"  he  interrupted,  "  was- " 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,"  she  repeated. 

"  Do  not  be  cruel  to  me,  Miss  Gordon.  Some  one  you 
love — was  it  a  lover  ?  Nay  do  not  think  me  curious.  As 
you  are  sweet,  womanly,  beautiful,  be  pitiful.  Was  it  a 
lover  ? " 

"  No,"  she  replied,  with  the  simplicity  of  a  child.  "  I 
never  had  a  lover  in  my  life." 

He  gave  one  great  sigh  of  relief.  Until  that  moment 
he  did  not  know  how  great  the  torture  of  suspense  had 
been.  Ethel's  face  flushed  deeply.  She  would  fain  have 
recalled  the  words  when  they  were  uttered,  but  it  was  too 
late.  With  the  quickness  that  distinguished  him,  he  saw 
instantly  that  she  repented  her  freedom  of  speech. 

"  You  have  not  told  me,"  he  said  gently,  "  if  you  have 
quite  forgotten  the  troubles." 

"  I  have  put  them  out  of  sight  for  a  time,"  she  said 
smilingly,  "  and  am  not  willing  to  look  at  them  again  just 
yet." 

"  I  am  afraid,  Miss  Gordon,  you  will  think  me  pre- 
sumptuous if  I  ask  a  great  favor  of  you." 

"  I  do  not  think  I  shall  have  any  unfavorable  thoughts 
of  you,"  returned  Ethel,  "even  if  you  ask  me  a  favor." 

"  You  like  sitting  here,  "  he  pursued.  "  I  have  watched 
you  morning  after  morning  coming  here  with  your  book, 
and  have  longed  to  join  you.  Will  you  permit  me  to  do 
so  occasionally  ? " 


74  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  the  questioning  glanceof  a 
child. 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  should  like  to  talk  to  you  very 
much.  Yes,  I  do  not  see  why  you  should  not  come  here 
when  you  like  ;  the  grounds  are  open  to  every  one." 

"  But  it  would  be  you  I  should  come  to  see — only  you. 
I  do  not  make  any  false  pretense.  It  is  not  because  I 
think  this  spot  more  beautiful  than  any  other,or  because  I 
like  it  better — it  is  that  I  may  see  you,  speak  to  you,  sun 
myself  in  your  bright  presence.  Now  do  you  say  l  yes  ? ' ' 

Her  face  became  grave,  the  golden  light  deepened  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Miss  Gordon  do  not  refuse  me.  What  your  presence 
is  to  me  I  dare  not  say.  Do  not  refuse  me  the  greatest 
favor  I  have  ever  asked." 

The  pleading  of  his  voice,  the  wistful  expression  on 
his  face  touched  her. 

"  If  I  see  you  here  to-morrow  morning,"  he  repeated, 
"  may  I  come  ?  " 

There  was  just  a  lingering  idea  in  her  mind  that  it 
would  not  be  quite  right — Miss  Digby  would  not  like  it. 
That  last  reflection  decided  her. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  if  it  pleases  you,  you  may  come." 

And  he  said  to  himself  that  he  had  raade  wonderful 
progress  that  bright,  sunny  morning  ;  and  those  who  knew 
how  proud,  how  reserved  Ethel  Gordon  was  would  have 
agreed  with  him* 


REPENTED  AT  LEISURE. 


75 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  love-story  enacted  at  St,  Ina's  Bay  was  a  romantic 
one.  Whatever  might  be  the  secrets  and  follies  of  Laurie 
Nngent's  life,  he  was  most  certainly  thoroughly  in  earnest 
now ;  whatever  flirtations  he  might  have  indulged  in,  this 
was  the  one  great  master-passion  of  his  life.  It  had  taken 
complete  possession  of  him.  He  would  have  given  his  life 
for  the  beautiful  brown-haired  girl  whose  smiles  were  like 
glimpses  of  paradise  to  him.  He  would  have  given  his  life 
for  her — yet  he  did  not  spare  her,  he  had  no  pity  for  her, 
no  remorse.  His  whole  soul,  every  thought,  every  energy 
of  his  mind,  was  bent  upon  winning  her.  He  seemed  to 
have  concentrated  his  very  existence  on  that  desire.  But, 
knowing  what  he  knew,  why  did  he  not  spare  her  ?  Be- 
cause his  love  was  essentially  selfish.  He  was  capable  of 
committing  any  crime  for  the  sake  of  winning  the  girl  he 
loved — he  would  have  hesitated  at  nothing ;  but  he  was 
not  capable  of  sparing  her,  of  saving  her  from  himself,  of 
giving  her  up  and  leaving  her.  His  love  was  utterly 
selfish. 

He  was  frightened  at  himself,  at  the  vehemence  of  his 
own  passion,  at  its  ascendancy  over  him.  There  were  times 
when  he  almost  loathed  himself  because  a  woman's  smile 
could  make  his  sun,  or  her  frown  his  shade.  There  were 
times  when  he  wondered  if  it  were  possible  that  he  could 
be  the  same  cynical,  careless  man  who  had  laughed  at 
love,  and  thought  of  it  only  as  a  pastime. 

The  day  had  no  brightness  for  Laurie  Nugent  until  he 
had  seen  Ethel ;  he  fell  asleep  with  her  name  on  his  lips, 
he  dreamed  of  her  at  night — fair,  gracious,  sweet,  and  win- 


y  6  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

some,  yet  so  proud  and  reserved  ;  he  woke  thinking  of  her, 
longing  for  the  hour  in  which  he  should  see  her,  think- 
ing of  a  thousand  pretty  things  that  he  would  say  to  her. 
The  world  was  wide,  the  world  was  large,  but  in  it  all  he 
saw  only  Ethel  Gordon — proud,  beautiful,  bewitching  Ethel. 
He  caught  himself  repeating  her  name  as  the  words  of  a 
song.  It  was  as  though  he  had  gathered  every  force  of  his 
mind  and  soul  together,  and  had  centered  them  on  her. 
Love  with  such  a  man,  in  such  force,  was  rather  a  passion 
than  an  affection.  He  had  sworn  to  himself  that  he  would 
win  her,  that  the  sweet  face  should  shine  upon  him  and  no 
other,  that  her  lips  should  speak  to  him,  and  to  no  other 
man,  of  love. 

Yet  with  it  all  he  was  prudent.  He  seldom  spoke  to 
Ethel  in  the  presence  of  Lady  Stafton — or  Helen  Digby  ; 
he  knew  that  it  would  hardly  be  safe  to  do  so — that,  if  they 
perceived  any  attention  on  his  part,  they  would,  after  the 
fashion  of  chaperons,  begin  to  make  inquiries  as  to  his 
position  and  his  fortune — such  inquiries  as  would  not  suit 
him.  So,  with  skill  and  adroitness  worthy  of  a  better 
cause,  he  continued  to  keep  the  elder  ladies  quite  in  ignor- 
ance of  his  friendship  with  Ethel. 

When  Miss  Gordon  was  with  them,  he  passed  with  a 
bow ;  if  he  spoke  to  them,  he  contented  himself  by  looking 
at  her.  When  his  heart  beat,  and  his  pulse  throbbed  with 
impatience,  he  comforted  himself  by  saying  that  very  soon 
she  would  be  his,  free  from  all  restraints,  from  all  surveil- 
lance. Yet,  with  all  his  prudence  and  caution,  he  had  some 
narrow  escapes. 

One  morning  Helen  Digby  was  restless,  and  even  be. 
fore  the  early  dawn  found  herself  unable  to  sleep  ;  she  had 
dreams  that  frightened  her,  uneasy  dreams  of  Ethel  Gor- 
don ;  and  she  rose,  thinking  the  morning  air  would  refresh 
her  and  drive  the  disagreeable  phantoms  away.  She 
went  out  on  the  lawn,  and  there  saw  Ethel  talking  to  Laurie 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  7  j 

Nugent ;  Ethel  held  in  her  hand  some  wild  roses  round 
which  was  entwined  a  spray  of  blue  convolvulus.  Miss 
Digby  went  up  to  her ;  she  bowed  coldly  to  Mr.  Nugent, 
and  laid  one  hand  warningly  on  the  girl's  shoulder. 

"  Ethel,"  she  said,  "  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  up 
and  out." 

"  Did  you  not  ?  "  was  the  careless  rejoinder.  "  I  am  out 
early  every  morning." 

"  I  thought  myself  very  fortunate  in  meeting  Miss  Gor- 
don," said  Laurie  Nugent,  with  a  coldly  polite  bow ;  "  it 
is  not  often  that  ladies  believe  the  morning  air  to  be  benefi- 
cial." 

He  passed  on,  as  though  he  had  only  just  stopped  to 
exchange  a  morning  greeting  with  Ethel,  and  then  Helen 
Digby  turned  gravely  to  the  young  girl 

"  My  dearest  Ethel,"  she  said,  "  I  do  not  like  to  seem 
officious,  but  your  father  trusted  you  entirely  to  me — so  en- 
tirely, that  I  feel  bound  to  see  that  you  form  no  new  friend- 
ships unless  they  are  such  as  he  would  sanction." 

"  My  father  never  interfered  with  me  in  that  way  him- 
self," interrupted  Ethel,  quickly. 

"  Perhaps  not,  my  dear  ;  but  then  the  circumstances 
were  different.  You  had  none  but  old  friends  around 
you,  you  were  not  among  strangers,  and  your  father,  of 
course,  could  do  as  he  liked." 

"  Equally,  of  course,  can  I,"  said  Ethel,  proudly. 
"  Will  you  explain,  Miss  Digby,  what  you  mean,  and  to 
what  you  are  alluding  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  will,  Ethel — plain  speaking  suits  us  both 
best.  I  saw  you  talking  to  Mr.  Nugent ;  now,  I  merely 
say,  my  dear  child,  be  cautious." 

"  Cautious  of  what  ?  Mr.  Nugent  is  an  acquaintance 
of  yours,  a  friend  of  your  friends,  I  have  heard  you  say." 

"  I  grant  it  ;  a  woman  of  my  age,  Ethel,  may  form  ac- 
quaintances that  a  young  girl  had  better  not  form,  I  say 


78  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

nothing  about  Mr.  Nugent — nothing  against  him,  for  I 
know  nothing  ;  but  I  think  you  had  better  avoid  him." 

"  You  will  pardon  me  if  I  ask  why,"  said  Ethel  ;  and 
Miss  Digby  saw  the  gleam  of  defiance  on  her  beautiful 
face. 

"  In  the  first  place,  we  know  nothing  of  him,  except 
that  he  is  a  friend  of  Lady  Delamaine's  ;  in  the  second, 
I  tell  you  frankly,  I  do  not  like  his  face." 

"  Why  do  you  not  like  it  ?  "  asked  Ethel. 

"  I  cannot  tell.  It  looks  to  me  like  a  false  face.  It  is 
not  the  face  of  a  good  man.  There  is  cunning  in  the 
sharp  eyes,  and  cruelty  on  the  thin  lips." 

"  You  are  prejudiced,"  said  Ethel,  coldly.  "  I  have 
never  heard  of  any  sensible  person  disliking  a  man  for  the 
color  of  his  eyes  or  the  shape  of  his  lips." 

"  Ethel,  you  will  not  understand  me.  It  is  not  that.  I 
say  the  expression  of  the  face  is  bad — and  I  am  sure  it  is 
not  the  face  of  a  good  man.  Mind,  I  know  nothing  against 
Mr.  Nugent  ;  but  Nature  never  made  a  mistake  in  her 
handwriting,  and  she  has  written  '  Beware'  on  his  face." 

Ethel  looked  up  at  her,  and  the  defiance  deepened  on 
her  face. 

"  Before  you  fatigue  yourself  by  arguing  any  further, 
Miss  Digby,  will  you  tell  me  in  what  way  Mr.  Nugent  con- 
cerns me  ?  " 

There  was  such  scornful  pride  in  the  beautiful  eyes 
that  Helen  Digby  hastened  to  explain  herself  more  fully. 

"  I  do  not  suspect  that  there  is  anything  clandestine 
between  you,  my  dearest  Ethel — I  have  never  thought  of 
such  a  thing.  I  only  wish  to  warn  you.  You  are  very, 
young,  Mr.  Nugent  is  very  handsome — a  perfect  man  of 
the  world — and  I  think  it  best  to  warn  you." 

"  You  must  be  more  explicit  still,  Miss  Digby." 

Helen  Digby  sighed,  Her  charge  was  terribly  per- 
verse. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  79 

"  I  wish  to  warn  you  very  distinctly  and  clearly  against 
Mr.  Nugent,  Ethel.  You  are  very  lovely,  my  dear,  and, 
naturally  enough,  he  must  admire  you.  He  may  pay  you 
compliments,  and  flatter  you  ;  do  not  believe  him,  do  not 
:rust  him,  do  not  put  faith  in  anything  he  may  say." 

"  You  are  supposing,  Miss  Digby,  that  I  am  not  old 
enough  to  take  care  of  myself." 

"  No,  Ethel,  I  am  only  supposing  that  you  are  inexpe- 
rienced. I  should  not  like  Sir  Leonard  to  think  that  I  had 
aot  taken  good  care  of  you." 

"  And  I  should  like  to  show  that  I  was  able  to  take 
setter  care  of  myself  than  you  could  of  me,"  retorted 
Ethel  ;  and  with  those  words,  proudly  spoken,  she  walked 
iways,  leaving  Helen  Digby  to  her  own  reflections. 

That  was  the  turning  of  the  scale  ;  from  that  day  the 
Balance  weighed  in  Laurie  Nugent's  favor.  That  Miss 
Digby  disliked  him  and  had  warned  her  against  him  was 
}uite  sufficient  to  make  Ethel  Gordon  like  him  and  incline 
n  his  favor.  Helen  Digby  could  not  have  done  anything 
nore  fatal  than  express  distrust  of  him.  If  Ethel  could 
lave  acted  as  she  liked,  she  would  have  talked  to  him  more 
;han  before,  and  it  always  would  have  been  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Miss  Digby  ;  but  Laurie  Nugent  was  wiser.  He 
saw  by  Helen's  face  that  she  had  not  been  quite  pleased 
it  seeing  Ethel  with  him  on  the  lawn. 

"  Discretion  is  the  better  part  of  valor,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. "  If  Miss  Digby  should  suspect  what  I  have  sworn, 
she  will  take  Ethel  where  I  cannot  follow,  and  then  I  must 
iose  her  ;  but,  if  I  use  a  little  self-control,  she  will  not  even 
suspect." 

So  for  the  next  few  days,  although  it  cost  him  more 
than  he  would  have  cared  to  acknowledge,  he  did  not  once 
approach  Ethel — he  did  not  even  seek  an  opportunity  of 
addressing  her  chaperon. 

"  She  shall  not  think  me  easrer  ;  she  shall  find  me  rer 


8o  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE, 

fectly  indifferent,"  he  said  ;  and  Ethel  was  surprised  to 
find  how  much  she  missed  him. 

Helen  Digby,  like  the  noble,  simple,  unsuspecting 
woman  she  was,  laughed  at  herself  for  her  suspicion.  It  had 
been  only  a  passing  thought,  an  idea  that  came  from  see- 
ing them  together,  which  she  laughed  at  now.  Laurie 
Nugent  appeared  to  be  sublimely  indifferent  to  Ethel,  and 
she,  proud,  cold,  and  haughty,  would  never  care  for  any 
one.  Helen  Digby  was  quite  at  her  ease,  and  in  a  few 
days  had  forgotten  the  circumstance,  or,  if  she  remembered 
it,  it  was  only  with  a  smile 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"THE  time  has  seemed  so  long  to  me  since  we  spoke," 
said  Laurie  Nugent  to  Miss  Gordon,  several  days  after 
the  lawn  incident,  "  that  I  wonder  how  I  have  lived 
through  it," 

"  I  do  not  see  why  you  should  not  have  spoken  to  me 
as  usual,"  observed  Ethel. 

He  gave  one  quick,  shrewd  glance  at  her — the  beauti- 
ful face  was  quite  calm  and  serene. 

"  I  thought  Miss  Digby  seemed  displeased  on  Tuesday 
morning  when  she  saw  you  speaking  to  me  on  the  lawn, 
and,  as  I  would  not  for  worlds  subject  you  to  her  dis- 
pleasure, I  thought  it  better  not  to  address  you." 

He  knew  that  the  arrow  had  gone  home  when  she  drew 
her  slender  figure  to  its  full  height. 

"  Miss  Digby's  pleasure  or  displeasure  affects  me  but 
very  little,"  she  said.  And  then  Laurie  Nugent  knew  that 
he  held  the  key  to  the  whole  situation.  The  girl  disliked 
her  guardian,  and  would  do  anything  to  vex  her. 

"  That  was  Tuesday,"  he  said,  "  and  this  is  Sunday. 
How  I  have  lived  through  the  week  I  cannot  tell ;  it  has 
seemed  to  me  a  century  long." 

It  was  Sunday  evening,  and  the  chiming  of  the  Sabbath 
bells  mingled  with  the  music  of  the  waves — a  calm,  beauti- 
ful evening,  when  all  Nature  seemed  to  know  that  Heaven's 
calm  rested  upon  it.  The  sweet  chime  of  the  bells  sounded 
from  the  distant  church  spire. 

Laurie  Nugent's  diplomacy  was  strikingly  successful 
that  bright  Sunday  evening.  From  some  of  the  satellites 
who  were  in  his  pay  he  had  heard  that  Miss  Gordon  was 


g2  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

not  going  to  church,  and  that  Miss  Digby  and  Lady  Stat- 
ion were. 

"They  will  never  leave  her  here  alone, "  he  thought, 
"  if  they  know  I  am  not  going." 

So  half  an  hour  before  church-time  he  framed  an  ex- 
cuse to  speak  to  Miss  Digby,  and  then  casually  mentioned 
that  he  intended  going  through  the  woods  to  Skilton  Old 
Church,  as  it  was  called. 

Miss  Digby  and  Lady  Stafton  set  out,  leaving  Ethel 
alone.  Lady  Stafton  had  said  something  about  the  pro- 
priety of  so  leaving  her,  but  Miss  Digby,  believing  that 
no  one  was  in  the  hotel  but  the  manager,  the  servants,  and 
a  few  lady  guests,  declined  to  interfere. 

"  It  is  hard  enough  to  exercise  any  authority  over  her 
when  the  object  is  an  important  one,"  she  said.  "  I  must 
not  try  her  too  far  by  interfering  without  cause." 

So  the  elder  ladies  went  to  church,  and  Ethel  went 
to  her  favorite  spot  to  hear  the  chiming  of  the  bells.  She 
looked  up  in  surprise  when  Laurie  Nugent  appeared  sud- 
denly by  her  side. 

"  I  thought  you  were  going  to  church,"  she  said. 

Again  he  gave  her  one  quick  glance  ;  the  beautiful 
face  was  quite  serene ;  there  was  no  suspicion  of  Irs  stra- 
tegy. 

"  I  did  intend  going,"  he  replied  ;  "  but  I  changed  my 
mind" 

"  I  thought  that  was  only  a  lady's  privilege,"  rejoined 
Ethel,  with  a  smile  so  bright  and  beautiful  that  he  took 
courage  and  flung  himself  on  the  rich,  thick  clover  at  her 
feet. 

"  How  sweet  and  sad  those  bells  are  ! "  he  said,  suddenly. 
"  How  calm  and  still  the  evening  is  !  Have  the  birds  a 
Sunday  of  their  own,  I  wonder  ?  Near  to  my  window  there 
is  a  great  elm-tree,  and  there  has  been  such  a  solemn  caw- 
ing of  trie  rooks." 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  83 

"  When  I  was  a  child,"  observed  Ethel,  "  I  always 
thought  the  sunshine  was  of  a  different  color  on  Sundays 
—it  seemed  to  have  a  more  golden,  mellow  light." 

When  she  was  a  child  !  As  though  she  were  anything 
else  then  !  He  looked  up  into  the  beautiful  girlish  face  > 
it  was  so  kind  and  sweet  that  he  took  courage  and  told  her 
how  cruelly  long  that  week  had  seemed  to  him,  in  which 
he  had  hardly  seen  her. 

And  then — they  seemed  such  old  friends — she  told  him 
her  simple  story — how  she  had  for  so  long  been  a  petted, 
spoiled,  beloved  darling,  the  pride  of  her  father's  life  ;  how 
she  had  ruled  with  easy  fantastic  sway  the  entire  house- 
hold, and  how  dearly  she  had  loved  that  sway ;  how  her 
love  and  her  affection  seemed  to  fill  her  father's  life  ;  and 
how  suddenly  this  happy  state  of  things  had  ended — how 
her  father,  having  begun  to  find  her  full  of  faults,  had  de- 
termined to  marry  again,  and  had  left  her  to  learn  the  dif- 
ficult lesson  of  obedience  from  her  future  mother-in-law. 

"  It  seems  very  hard,"  he  said  ;  "  I  do  sympathize  with 
you.  One  can  never  throw  off  the  habit  of  a  lifetime." 

So,  gradually,  by  kind,  gentle  words,  and  delicately 
veiled  expressions  of  dislike  to  Helen  Digby,  he  led  her 
on  until  he  knew  the  simple  story  of  her  life  by  heart. 
He  understood  that  Sir  Leonard  had  repented  when  too 
late  of  the  indulgence  with  which  he  had  treated  his  daugh- 
ter ;  he  understood  that  the  second  marriage  was  more  for 
her  sake  than  his  own,  to  provide  her  with  a  wise,  sensible, 
womanly  guide. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "  that  in  all  your  life  until  now 
you  have  never  been  opposed  or  contradicted — -you  have 
done  just  as  you  would  ? 

She  looked  up  at  him  brightly.  "  Papa  liked  my  rule," 
she  said,  "  and  I  made  every  one  happy." 

It  pleased  her  to  hear  kind  words  from  him.  The 
scene  was  picturesque,  the  hour  pleasant,  the  sound  of 


84  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

those  murmured  words  delightful ;  and  on  this  evening 
Laurie  Nugent  said  more  than  he  had  ever  said  before. 
He  told  her  how  he  had  missed  her ;  and  there  was  such 
a  ring  of  true  passion  in  his  words  that  proud  Ethel  was 
subdued  as  she  listened. 

"You  think,  because  I  have  known  you  so  short  a 
time,  I  must  be  exaggerating.  Ah,  no — the  brightness  of 
day,  the  brightness  of  dawn  comes  with  your  presence. 
The  flowers  around  us  here  are  fair,  but  none  are  so  fair 
as  you ;  the  gleam  of  the  sun  is  bright,  but  it  is  not  so 
bright  as  you  ;  the  sound  of  your  voice  is  sweeter  than  the 
chiming  of  those  Sabbath  bells,  or  the  music  of  the  birds. 
When  I  look  at  you,  all  my  life  seems  complete  ;  the  fair- 
est dreams  I  have  ever  had  are  realized.  I  could  worship 
you  as  men  of  old  worshipped  goddesses.'* 

She  smiled  as  she  listened.  He  would  have  been 
better  pleased  if  her  dark,  proud  eyes  had  drooped,  and 
her  face  had  flushed.  She  smiled  serenely,  as  she  would 
have  smiled  at  the  words  of  a  pleasant  poem  or  the  notes 
of  a  beautiful  song.  Still,  she  was  not  angry — and  that 
was  one  point  gained.  If  she  would  only  listen  to  his 
pleadings — to  all  the  love  stories  that  he  knew  so  well 
how  to  tell — he  felt  sure  that  he  should  win  her  in  time. 

"  You  can  imagine  how  those  who  have  lived  for 
months  in  darkness  long  for  the  blessed  light  of  the  sun,'1 
he  said.  "  So  have  I  longed  to  see  you." 

She  laughed  a  low  sweet  musical  laugh. 

"  What  am  I  to  you,"  she  said,  "  that  you  should  wish 
to  see  me  ?  " 

He  looked  up  into  her  face  with  a  glance  that  stirred 
the  depths  of  her  heart. 

"  What  are  you  to  me  !  "  he  echoed.  "  Miss  Gordon, 
all  words  fail  me  when  I  try  to  answer  that  question, 
What  is  the  light  of  day  to  an  imprisoned  man  ?  What 
is  the  sun  to  the  world — the  dew  to  the  flowers — sweet 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  85 

dropping  rain  to  thirsty  plants  ?  What  is  grateful  shade 
to  a  sun-scorched  traveller — the  sight  of  land  to  a  storm- 
tossed  sailor  ?  What  are  you  to  me  !  If  from  sunrise  to 
sunset  I  sat  and  spoke  to  you  of  nothing  else,  I  could  not 
tell  you  what  you  are  to  me." 

She  glanced  at  him  with  the  most  natural  and  charm- 
ing surprise  in  her  dark  eyes,  the  lovely  dimpled  lips  were 
smiling ;  there  was  no  confusion,  no  embarrassment  in  her 
manner,  and,  looking  at  her,  Laurie  Nugent  wondered  if 
she  loved  him — if  ever  he  should  win  her — or  if  he  should 
have  to  leave  her  at  last. 

"  I  have  not  displeased  you,  I  trust,"  he  saii  looking 
at  the  beautiful,  downcast  face.  "  You  asked  me  the  ques- 
tion so  suddenly  I  was  taken  by  surprise.  If  all  the  poetry 
in  the  world  were  compressed  into  a  single  song,  it  could 
not  describe  my  affection  for  you — if  all  the  love  that  has 
ever  been  felt  by  mortal  man  could  be  placed  in  one  heart, 
it  would  still  fall  far  short  of  the  love  I  feel  for  you." 

She  glanced  at  him  quietly, 

"  You  love  me,  then  ? "  she  queried,  in  a  voice  that 
breathed  sweetest  music. 

"  I  love  you  ! "  he  repeated — and  the  sound  of  his 
words  startled  him  even  more  than  it  did  Ethel  Gordon. 

They  sat  for  some  minutes  in  silence,  while  the  chim- 
ing of  the  bells  floated  around  them. 

"  I  love  you  !  "  repeated  Laurie  Nugent.  "  I  have 
summoned  courage  at  last  to  say  so.  I  loved  you  the  first 
moment  that  I  saw  you,  and  I  shall  love  you  until  I  die. 
I  know  it  is  presumption.  You  are  far  above  me  as 
the  blue  sky  or  the  golden  sun  ;  but  I  love  you,  and  by  the 
ladder  of  love  I  hope  to  climb  to  your  side." 

He  caught  her  white  hands  in  a  passionate  grasp,  so 
tightly  as  almost  to  cause  her  to  cry  aloud. 

"  What  the  men  of  old  did  to  win  the  women  they 
loved  I  would  do,  Ethel.  I  would  serve  for  you  twice 


86  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

seven  years,  content  if  I  might  win  you  at  last ;  I  would 
love  you  all  my  life,  and  be  content  to  win  one  word,  one 
smile,  in  return,  as  I  lay  dying ;  I  would  go  out  and  fight 
for  you  as  did  the  heroes  of  old ;  I  would  live  for  you,  I 
would  die  for  you  ;  for  I  love  you  Ethel,  as  no  man  has 
ever  loved  a  woman  before." 

His  voice  died  away  in  passionate  murmur,  and  he 
buried  his  face  in  the  silken,  shining  folds  of  her  dress. 
She  sat  silent  and  motionless,  for  his  words  had  fallen  up- 
on her  with  a  blank  surprise — she  had  not  expected  them. 

"  Ethel,"  he  continued,  "  I  have  nothing  to  offer  you 
that  is  worthy  of  you.  What  would  be  worthy  ?  If  I  had 
all  the  world's  wealth,  and  could  lay  it  at  your  feet,  it 
would  be  unworthy  of  you.  If  I  were  an  emperor,  and 
could  raise  you  to  the  throne  by  my  side,  and  could  give 
you  the  crown  from  my  brow,  it  would  still  be  unworthy  of 
you.  I  can  give  you  nothing  but  the  deep  passionate  love 
of  my  heart,  my  faith,  my  truth,  my  life." 

He  paused  again,  with  the  last  word  trembling  on  his 
lips.  Her  proud,  frank  eyes  were  shining  down  upon  him, 
but  there  was  no  confusion  in  her  face,  no  hesitation  in 
her  manner. 

"Why  do  you  love  me  so  much? "  she  asked,  with  the 
simple  wonder  of  a  child.  "  I  do  not  understand  it." 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,  Ethel.  Why  do  I  love  you  ?  I 
cannot  help  it.  I  loved  you  before  I  knew  your  name,  or 
had  heard  you  speak.  My  heart  went  from  me  in  the  first 
glimpse  I  had  of  your  beautiful  face.  Ask  the  birds  why 
they  sing,  the  flowers  why  they  bloom,  the  sun  why  it 
shines.  It  would  be  easier  for  those  to  answer  than  for 
me  to  say  why  I  love  you.  I  cannot  help  it.  It  is  my 
destiny,  and  no  fairer  one  was  ever  given  to  man." 

He  raised  his  handsome  head,  and  looked  up  into  the 
calm  proud,  severe  face. 

"I  am  almost  frightened  at  my  own  presumption,"  he 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE,  g* 

continued  ;  "  it  is  as  if  a  slave  had  dared  to  raise  his  eyes  to 
the  fairest,  the  proudest  the  brightest  of  queens.  Ethel, 
say  you  are  not  angry  with  me." 

"  I  am  not  angry,"  she  replied. 

"  You  will  think  I  grow  courageous  with  kindness. 
Say  even  more  than  that — what  will  you  give  me  in  return 
for  my  great  love  ?  " 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  answered;  and  there  was  a 
grace  so  childlike,  so  innocent,  so  pure  in  her  looks  and 
words  that  once  more  the  impulse  was  strong  upon  him  to 
save  her  from  himself.  Only  for  one  moment  did  it  last,  and 
then  the  selfish,  passionate  love  rose  in  his  heart,  and  he 
was  kneeling  at  her  feet. 

"  Ethel,  I  pray  you  give  me  something  in  return  for  my 
love — give  me  liking  that  will  in  time  become  love.  Bid 
me  do  something  that  I  can  prove  how  dearly  I  love  you. 
Do  not  send  me  from  you  to  despair  and  death.  I  am  a 
strong  and  a  proud  man ;  my  pride  and  strength,  with  my 
love  and  my  life,  are  lying  at  your  feet — stoop  and  raise 
them,  Ethel." 

He  could  not  have  spoken  more  effectively ;  one  of 
Ethel's  weakest  points  was  this  love  of  power  to  which  he 
now  appealed.  It  was  something  to  find  that  this  strong, 
handsome,  powerful  man  laid  his  life  in  her  hands — knelt 
at  her  feet,  praying  for  one  kind  word  from  her.  It  flat- 
tered her ;  she  had  fancied  herself  so  neglected,  she  had 
been  deposed  from  her  natural  sovereignty,  and  it  was 
pleasant  to  find  that  in  one  man's  heart  she  reigned  a 
most  triumphant  queen. 

It  was  not  love  that  caused  her  to  leave  her  white  hands 
in  his  passionate  grasp — it  was  not  love  that  caused  her 
to  droop  her  beautiful  face  over  him — it  was  not  love  that 
shone  in  her  eyes  and  trembled  on  her  lips.  It  was  only 
gratified  vanity — gratified  love  of  power. 


88  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  Ethel,  say  you  will  love  me,"  he  said.  "  Say  you  will 
make  me  some  little  turn  for  my  deep  love." 

"  I  will,"  she  responded ;  "  at  least  I  will  try." 

Once  again  he  buried  his  face  in  the  shining,  silken 
folds,  and  she  saw  his  strong  frame  trembling.  Something 
like  a  long  drawn  sigh  escaped  from  his  lips, 

"  I  was  afraid,"  he  said,  in  alow  voice.  "  I  was  sorely 
frightened  Ethel ;  for  I  felt  myself  quite  unworthy  of  you." 

Then  he  sat  by  her  side  and  talked  to  her  until  the 
girl  fancied  that  she  was  transported  to  some  other  sphere. 
It  was  pleasant  to  hear  how  beautiful  she  was,  how  com- 
pletely she  had  conquered  him,  how  strong  were  the  chains 
that  bound  him  to  her,  how  deeply  and  dearly  and  truly 
he  loved  her.  It  was  so  pleasant  that  she  abandoned  her- 
self to  the  charm,  and  Laurie  Nugent,  with  a  wild,  exultant 
triumph,  said  to  himself  that  he  had  won  her — that  she 
was  his  own. 

The  golden  light  of  the  evening  sun  faded  into  the 
purple  gloaming,  the  vesper  song  of  the  birds  gradually 
ceased,  but  still  they  sat  on. 

At  length  Laurie  Nugent  rose. 

"  It  is  growing  late,"  he  said.  "  Ethel,  my  darling — I 
may  call  you  darling  now,  and  there  is  no  sweeter  word — 
I  hardly  like  to  propose  it,  but  do  you  not  think  it  would 
be  better  not  to  say  anything  at  present  to  Miss  Digby  ? " 

She  raised  her  head  proudly,  with  that  haughty  glance 
he  knew  so  well. 

"  Do  you  suppose  that  I  should  ever  say  anything  to 
Miss  Digby  ?  It  is  no  business  of  hers — it  concerns  papa. 
When  I  think  it  needful  I  shall  write  to  him." 

"  Miss  Digby  would  take  the  keenest  pleasure  in  part- 
ing us,"  observed  Mr.  Nugent — "  I  am  quite  sure  of  that ; 
and,  O,  Ethel !  let  me  have  a  few  days  of  happiness,  a  few 
days  of  such  unutterable  bliss  as  rarely  falls  to  man's  lot  1 
You  will  not  even  tell  your  father  yet  ? " 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  89 

"  Not  unless  you  wish  me  to  do  so,"  she  replied. 

"  He  would  be  sure  to  write  and  place  the  whole  mat- 
ter in  Miss  Digby's  hands  ;  and  then  she  would  triumph. 
Keep  your  own  sweet  counsel,  Ethel." 

"  Miss  Digby  shall  never  triumph  over  me,"  she  said, 
proudly. 

"  And,  Ethel,  now  that  you  have  accepted  me  for  your 
knight,  you  will  consent  sometimes  to  see  me — you  will  let 
me  join  you  in  your  evening  rambles — you  will  be  kind  to 
me  for  the  sake  of  the  great  and  mighty  love  I  bear 
you  ? " 

She  promised,  and  bending  his  handsome  head  he 
kissed  the  white,  soft  hands — he  looked  at  the  beautiful 
face,  but  dared  not  touch  it  with  his  lips — and  then,  slowly 
and  reluctantly,  he  went  away  through  the  silent  woods. 

Helen  Digby  wondered  that  night  at  Ethel ;  the  girl 
looked  so  beautiful,  with  a  softened  light  on  her  face,  and 
a  dreamy  expression  in  her  eyes.  Her  words  were  un- 
usually gentle,  her  manner  had  more  than  its  ordinary 
charm.  Helen  was  delighted,  and  cherished  the  vain  hope 
that  Ethel  was  beginning  to  like  her  at  last.  When  the 
ladies  had  discussed  the  sermon,  the  congregation,  and  the 
long,  pleasant  walk  home,  Lady  Stafton  said, — 

"  I  did  not  see  Mr.  Nugent.  He  went  to  the  old 
church,  I  suppose." 

"  I  am  almost  glad  we  did  not  see  him,"  remarked 
Miss  Digby.  "  I  really  cannot  tell  why,  but  I  am  begin- 
ning to  have  a  strange  mistrust  of  him.  I  do  not  like  Mr. 
Nugent." 

A  moment  afterward,  looking  at  Ethel,  she  saw  the 
fair  young  face  crimson,  and  Helen  sighed  as  she  wondered 
at  it. 

"You  are  prejudiced,  Helen,"  said  Lady  Stafton, 
laughing.  "  There  is  nothing  particular  in  Mr.  Nugent 
to  admire,  nor  do  I  see  anything  to  dislike." 


go  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

Then  Zthel  rose  and  said  good-night.  Helen  Digby 
looked  pleased. 

"  Ethel  is  beginning  to  like  me,  and  to  feel  more  at  home 
with  me,"  she  said.  "  How  happy  I  shall  be  when  she 
cares  for  me  !  She  is  a  grand,  noble,  generous  girl,  de- 
spite her  pride  and  her  love  of  power.  I  cannot  help  long- 
ing for  her  affection." 

Lady  Stafton  laughed  again,  thinking  her  friend  sen- 
timental, while  Ethel  went  to  her  room  to  dream  once 
more  of  the  scene  in  the  woods. 

Laurie  Nugent  was  triumphant  ;  he  had  barely  hoped 
for  so  great  a  success.  Ethel  was  so  beautiful,  so  haughty, 
her  smiles,  though  so  sweet,  were  so  rare,  that  he  had 
hardly  dared  to  hope  that  Ethel  would  listen  to  him.  On 
that  calm  Sabbath  evening  he  walked  through  the  silent 
woods,  feeling,  with  his  poetical,  beauty-loving  nature,  the 
charm  of  the  scene  around  him.  Yet  no  beauty,  no  charm 
tempted  him  to  spare  Ethel.  He  thought  of  her  proud, 
fair  young  beauty — of  her  high  spirit,  her  noble  nature  ; 
he  wondered  how  she  would  endure  the  life  that  lay  before 
her  ;  he  wondered  whether  in  the  time  to  come  she  would 
dislike  him,  hate  him,  loathe  him.  He  wondered  over  all 
these  things,  yet  the  idea  of  sparing  her,  of  saving  her,  was 
beyond  him — he  was  not  capable  of  the  sacrifice. 

"  I  must  hasten  matters  now,"  he  said,  as  he  stopped 
to  gather  a  spray  of  wild  clematis.  "  I  cannot  hide  from 
myself  that  I  increase  the  chances  of  danger  by  lingering 
here.  Ah,  me  !  if  life  could  be  passed  among  love  and 
flowers,  I,  for  one,  should  be  quite  content" 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

DID  she  love  him,  or  did  she  not  ?  That  was  a  ques- 
tion Laurie  Nugent  often  asked  himself  during  the  next 
few  days.  He  had  deemed  himself  well  versed  in  the  ways 
of  woman  ;  he  thought,  with  a  half  contemptuous  smile,  of 
how  easily  they  were  understood,  of  how  easily  they  were 
managed  ;  he  wondered  at  the  nonsense  men  wrote  and 
uttered  about  the  impossibility  of  understanding  the  fairer 
half  of  creation.  But  this  young  girl  puzzled  him.  She 
had  met  him  and  talked  with  him  ;  she  had  even  answered 
some  of  the  passionate  love-letters  he  had  written  to  her  ; 
but  her  proud,  serene  calm  fairly  puzzled  him. 

Her  face  never  changed  its  color  for  him,  her  eyes 
never  drooped  beneath  his,  her  hands  never  trembled 
when  he  held  them  in  a  warm,  loving  clasp  ;  she  had  none 
of  the  pretty  shyness  that  he  thought  belonged  naturally 
to  young  girls  in  love  ;  she  did  not  seem  to  study  his 
looks  and  words  as  others  had  done  ;  she  was  kind,  gra- 
cious, gentle,  but  she  never  lost  her  proud  serenity,  her 
dignified  calm.  He  thought  much  of  it,  but  he  could  not 
tell  whether  she  loved  him. 

Nor  had  Ethel  answered  a  like  question  satisfactorily 
to  herself.  It  was  very  pleasant  to  be  wooed  in  so  chival- 
rous a  fashion — to  see  a  tall,  strong,  handsome  man  sub- 
missive as  a  child — to  know  that  he  obeyed  her  slightest  wish 
that  he  trembled  at  her  frown,  that  her  least  word  could- 
raise  him  to  heaven,  or  fling  him  into  the  depths  of  despair. 
Ethel  Gordon's  love  of  power  was  gratified  by  her  ascend- 
ancy over  Laurie  Nugent.  It  was  flattering  to  see  the 
color  change  on  his  handsome  face,  the  strong  hands  trem- 


9  2  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

ble  at  her  approach.  But,  if  all  she  had  read  of  love  in 
poesy  was  true,  she  did  not  love  him.  She  believed  she 
did.  The  break  in  the  calm  monotony  of  her  life  had  been 
more  than  pleasant ;  the  stir  of  gratified  vanity,  the  love 
of  rule,  the  desire  of  doing  something  that  Miss  Digby  did 
not  approve,  the  wish  to  oppose  her — the  delightful  con- 
sciousness of  disobeying  her — all  these  things  Ethel  Gor- 
don mistook  for  love. 

And  so  mistaking,  she  was  bitterly  disappointed.  She 
had  now  reached  the  shores  of  that  golden  land  that  in 
the  distance  had  so  completely  charmed  her.  She  found 
them  bleak  and  barren  ;  the  bright  fairyland  was  but  a 
dry  waste.  She  sighed  deeply  as  she  said  to  herself  that 
she  was  in  love,  and  that  love  after  all  was  not  what  she 
had  imagined.  She  recalled  the  glowing  verses  of  the  poets 
who  had  written  of  it,  the  glorious  melodies  that  told  of  it, 
the  books  written  in  eloquent  words  with  love  for  a  theme 
— and  that  was  all. 

It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  she  had  mistaken  gratified 
vanity  for  love  ;  she  was  not  even  conscious  how  far  the 
desire  to  oppose  and  thwart  Miss  Digby  influenced  her ; 
and  she  was  disappointed  that  love  was  not  more  entranc- 
ing after  all.  She  had  read  somewhere  that  it  changed 
the  very  aspect  of  the  world  for  those  who  opened  their 
hearts  to  it,  that  the  sunshine  became  more  golden,  that 
the  flowers  grew  more  fair.  She  had  not  found  it  so.  It 
was  very  pleasant  to  be  so  tenderly  cared  for,  so  assidu- 
ously worshipped — to  know  that  one  man's  thoughts  were 
all  for  her,  that  his  life  was  centered  in  her — to  know  that 
her  very  action  was  of  the  highest  importance  to  him.  But 
there  it  all  ended ;  she  could  not  understand  what  the 
poets  had  meant  by  rapture  and  delight.  She  owned  to 
herself  that,  now  this  great,  grand  dower  of  womanhood 
had  been  given  to  her,  she  did  not  think  so  very  much  of 
it.  The  part  that  she  enjoyed  the  most  and  found  the 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  93 

greatest  pleasure  in  was  in,  remembering  how  completely 
she  had  ignored  Helen  Digby. 

"  What  will  papa  think  of  me  when  he  learns  that  under 
her  auspices,  under  her  charge  and  control,  under  her  guid- 
ance, I  have  met  a  lover,  settled  my  whole  life,  and  she 
knows  nothing  of  it  ?  What  will  papa  say  to  that  ?  What 
will  he  think  of  her  boasted  prudence,  her  power  of 
guidance  ?  " 

It  was  neither  a  kind  nor  a  generous  view  to  take  of 
matters — it  was  unlike  Ethel  Gordon — but  her  dislike 
of  Miss  Digby  had  blinded  her,  and  she  went  slowly  on  the 
road  that  led  to  her  doom. 

One  beautiful  morning  Laurie  Nugent  did  not  feel  inclined 
to  join  the  other  guests  at  breakfast.  He  asked  for  a  cup 
of  coffee  and  the  morning  papers  to  be  taken  out  into  one 
of  the  pretty  little  arbors  that  were  dotted  over  the  grounds 
He  had  been  dreaming  of  Ethel  all  night,  thinking  of  her 
ever  since  the  morning  sun  had  begun  to  shine,  and  he  felt 
unable  and  unwilling  to  speak  to  others  until  he  had  looked 
upon  her.  He  knew  that  she  would  be  out  soon.  On 
those  warm,  beautiful  days  the  visitors  at  the  hotel  cared 
little  for  being  indoors.  He  opened  the  paper — there  was 
but  little  news.  Once  or  twice  he  laid  it  down,  for  between 
him  and  the  printed  page  the  face  of  Ethel  Gordon  seemed 
to  float. 

"  How  she  has  bewitched  me  !  "  he  said  to  himself. 

He  laid  the  paper  aside,  and  then  took  it  up  again. 
Suddenly  the  smile  died  from  his  lips,  and  a  livid  pallor 
not  pleasant  to  behold  came  over  his  face.  There  was  a 
small  paragraph  of  five  or  six  lines  which  seemed  to  fasci- 
nate him.  He  read  and  re-read  it. 

"  It  cannot  be  true,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  It  is  a  ruse 
to  satisfy  people.  Of  course  the  police  must  say  something 
or  the  public  would  lose  all  faith  in  them.  It  cannot  be 
true.  They  know  nothing  about  it." 


94  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE 

He  laid  the  paper  down  again,  but  the  hand  that 
raised  the  cup  to  his  lips  trembled  so  that  he  could  hardly 
hold  it. 

"  Good  Heavens,  if  it  should  be  true ! "  he  cried. 
"  And  I  am  wasting  time  here.  I  ought  to  leave  this  very 
day,  this  very  hour,  but — I  cannot — I  would  just  as  soon 
die  as  leave  my  love.  I  must  take  her  with  me. 

There  was  no  more  quiet  reading  for  him  that  morning. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  hardly  had  time  to  think.  The 
ladies  came  out,  and  Miss  Digby  sent  to  him  for  the  Times. 
It  was  strange  how  he  hesitated  about  giving  it  to  her. 
His  face  flushed,  and  then  grew  pale. 

"  I  cannot  tear  it  out/'  he  said.  "  They  might  think 
it  strange.  How  foolish  I  am  !  What  can  they  know 
of  it  ? " 

Yet.  when  after  a  time  he  saw  the  paper  open  in  Ethel's 
hand,  he  rose  from  his  seat  with  a  suppressed  cry  ;  but 
with  an  effort  he  again  controlled  himself,  and  then  walked 
away  from  the  spot.  Lady  Stafton,  meeting  him  some 
time  afterward,  said, — 

"  You  do  not  look  well  this  morning,  Mr.  Nugent." 

He  murmured  a  few  words.  She  saw  how  his  lips 
trembled,  and  she  passed  on,  while  Laurie  Nugent  sought 
the  silent  depths  of  the  wood,  there  to  think  at  his  ease. 
He  seated  himself  on  the  grass. 

"  In  the  first  place,"  he  mused,  "  is  it  true  ?  I  do  not 
believe  it.  If  there  be  only  the  least  foundation  for  such 
a  rumor,  I  ought  to  fly  at  once,  without  an  hour's  delay. 
Can  I  go  ?  Can  I  leave  the  girl  I  love  better  than  my  life  ? 
A  thousand  times — no  !  I  cannot  leave  her.  If  I  go  she 
must  go  with  me.  And  how  can  that  be  accomplished  ?  " 

The  old  doubt  returned  to  him — did  she  really  love  him, 
or  was  it  gratified  vanity  and  love  of  rule  ?  Never  mind — 
it  mattered  little  to  him.  He  loved  her,  and  every  desire 
of  his  heart  was  centered  in  her.  He  had  sworn  to  win 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  g$ 

her,  and  he  would  keep  his  vow.  She  would  love  him  in 
time. 

"  I  must  go,  and  I  must  take  her  with  me,"  he  repeated. 
For  some  time  he  sat  absorbed  in  thought,  his  face  grave 
and  anxious.  Suddenly  a  light  came  over  it,  and  Laurie 
Nugent  sprang  from  his  seat  with  a  cry. 

"  I  have  found  it — I  can  manage  it !  If  I  make  good 
use  of  Miss  Digby,  I  may  win  the  day." 

So  careless,  so  volatile,  so  debonnair  was  he  that  as 
he  sat  an  idle  strain  of  song  came  from  his  lips.  He  had 
solved  the  problem — he  saw  his  way  clear  to  persuade  Ethel 
to  go  away  with  him.  What  now  cared  he  ? 

"  I  must  make  Miss  Digby  more  useful  than  ever  she 
has  been  in  her  life,"  he  said.  "  She  must  be  the  decoy. 
I  wonder  if  my  love  will  consent  ? ". 

Yet  during  the  remainder  of  that  day  Laurie  Nugent 
was  strangely  nervous.  If  any  one  entered  the  hotel  sud- 
denly, he  would  start  and  grow  pale.  He  asked  more  than 
once  if  there  were  any  new  arrivals,  and  seemed  greatly 
relieved  when  he  was  told  "  No."  "  Nor  will  there  be," 
said  the  manager,  "  at  this  time  of  the  year.  St.  Ina's  is 
quite  out  of  the  beaten  track." 

A  look  of  wonderful  relief  came  over  Mr.  Nugent's  face. 

"  You  really  consider  it  quite  out  of  the  beaten  track  ?  " 
he  questioned. 

"  It  is  the  least  frequented  spot  in  England,"  was  the 
reply,  "  although  I  think  it  one  of  the  prettiest."  Then  the 
manager  left  his  guest  to  his  own  meditations. 

"  I  must  see  Ethel  to-night,"  he  said  ;  "  and  then,  if  she 
will  consent,  to-morrow  I  will  go  over  to  Holmleigh — that  is 
the  nearest  place.  I  will  make  all  arrangements  there. 
This  is  Tuesday — if  she  consents  at  all,  she  will  agree  for 
Thursday." 

He  wrote  on  a  slip  of  paper — "  I  want  to  see  you  so 
particularly,  Ethel,  my  dear  love,  that  I  am  obliged  to  ask 


96  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

you  to  come  out  for  a  few  minutes  this  evening.  Do  not 
be  later  than  nine,  and  come  to  the  lime-grove — I  shall  be 
waiting  for  you  there.  Do  not  refuse,  sweet,  for  all  my 
future  life  depends  upon  the  '  Yes/  or  *  No/  that  you  will 
say  to  me  to-night." 

He  contrived  to  place  that  in  her  hand,  and  when  she 
smiled,  he  knew  that  she  had  consented.  She  would  rather 
have  died  than  smiled,  had  she  known  what  would  come  of 
that  evening's  meeting. 


REPENTED  AT  LEISURE 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  stars  were  gleaming  in  the  depths  of  a  dark  blue 
sky,  the  night  wind  was  sweet  with  the  breath  of  odorous 
blossoms,  the  dew  thick  upon  the  grass  and  the  flowers — a 
great  calm  and  silence  seemed  to  lie  like  a  blessing  over 
the  earth  ;  the  lime-trees  were  faintly  stirred  by  the  night 
wind,  the  leaves  rustled  and  sighed. 

Ethel  walked  quickly  and  quietly  down  to  the  lime-grove. 
She  had  found  some  little  difficulty  in  leaving  the  house 
unobserved,  but  she  had  accomplished  it ;  and,  when  Helen 
Digby  believed  her  safe  in  her  room,  she  was  walking  with 
rapid  steps  to  meet  Laurie  Nugent. 

She  knew  perfectly  well  that  she  was  not  doing  right — 
in  the  long,  sad  after-years  she  never  tried  to  excuse  her- 
self— but  there  was  comfort  to  her  in  the  thought  that  she 
was  deliberately  disobeying  Helen  Digby. 

"  If  my  father  could  see  me  now,"  she  thought  to  her- 
self, "  he  would  say  it  would  have  been  better  to  leave  me 
alone.  If  he  had  trusted  me,  I  would  not  have  done  this." 

Bitter,  cruel,  unjust  thoughts  against  her  father's  chosen 
wife  came  over  her  as  she  walked  in  the  silence  of  the 
sweet  summer  night  to  keep  her  appointment.  There  was 
no  seat  under  the  fragrant  limes,  and  Laurie  Nugent,  as 
soon  as  he  saw  Ethel,  hastened  forward,  and  took  both  her 
hands  in  his. 

"  My  darling/'  he  said,  "  how  good  of  you  to  come  !  I 
knew  that  I  was  asking  the  greatest  possible  favor.  I 
hardly  dared  to  hope  that  you  would  grant  it." 

There  was  an  answering  light  of  joy  on  her  face.  She 
smiled  gently  as  one  who  was  simply  pleased. 


^8  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  You  wanted  me  particularly  ;  so  I  could  not  refuse  to 
come  But  I  must  not  stay.  Tell  me  quickly  what  it  is — • 
Laurie." 

She  hesitated  before  uttering  the  name ;  but  he  had 
prayed  so  hard  that  she  would  use  it  that  she  made  the 
-effort.  He  kissed  her  v/hite  hands  as  he  thanked  her,  and 
then  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face. 

"  What  is  it,  Laurie  ?     I  must  not  stay." 

To  her  great  surprise  she  saw  tears  shining  in  his  eyes, 
.and  the  light  of  the  stars  showed  that  his  face  was  pale 
.and  sorrowful. 

"  I  have  so  much  to  say  to  you,  my  darling,  that  I 
hardly  know  how  to  begin.  Ethel,  you  have  read  of  women 
who  have  held  the  hearts  of  men  in  the  hollow  of  their 
small  white  hands — in  like  manner  do  you  hold  mine. 
You  have  read  of  women  who  have  held  men's  lives  in  their 
power — so,  dearest,  do  you  hold  mine.  On  your,  *  Yes  '  or 
'  No '  to-night  depends  my  whole  future — my  life,  my  death, 
my  sorrow,  my  joy,  my  well  or  evil  doing,  all  depend  on 
what  you  shall  say  to  me  to-night." 

She  looked  anxiously  at  him — the  starlight,  the  night 
wind,  the  solemn  silence,  the  holy  calm,  all  tended  to  soften 
her  heart.  She  felt  more  kindly  disposed  to  him  than  she 
had  ever  felt  before — such  absolute  sovereignty  over  a  tall, 
strong  man  was  delightful.  She  let  her  white  hand  linger 
in  his  clasp,  and  said,  gently, — 

"  Tell  me  what  you  mean,  Laurie." 
He  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  and  she  guessed  rather 
1foan  knew  that  some  great  struggle  was  going  on  in  his 
mind.  Suddenly  he  did  what  he  had  never  dared  to  do 
before — he  clasped  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  beauti- 
ful face. 

"  My  darling,"  he  said,  gently,  "  if  I  could  but  take  you 
away — if  we  could  only  leave  this  cold,  cruel  world  behind 
us — if  we  could  go  where  there  are  no  troubles,  no  sorrows, 


REPENTKB  A^T LEISURE.  99 

where  the   sun   is   always  bright,    and  the  world  always 
fair !  " 

She  shrank  from  him,  and  the  idea  struck  her  that,  al- 
though she  was  in  love  with  him,  she  would  not  care  about 
going  away  with  him.  Then  Laurie  recovered  himself, 
and  Ethel  reproached  herself  that  she  was  not  kinder  to 
him. 

"  My  darling  Ethel, "  he  said,  "  I  am  going  to  put  your 
love  to  the  test.  You  are  a  generous,  noble  girl ;  you 
have  heroism  and  courage  for  anything  that  you  care  to  do. 
I  want  you  to  display  that  heroism  for  me.  I  want  to  put 
your  love  to  the  test.  Will  you  bear  it,  do  you  think  ?  " 

*'  Yes,"  she  replied,  proudly ;  "  any  test  that  you  can 
offer  I  can  bear." 

"  That  is  spoken  like  yourself ;  you  are  braver  than 
any  other  woman,  Ethel,  just  as  you  are  more  beautiful. 
How  many  girls  in  your  place  would  have  meekly  yielded 
to  Miss  Digby — would  have  submitted  to  her  in  everything ! 
But  you  have  held  your  own  against  her.  What  I  have  to 
ask  you  to-night  would  dismay  and  frighten  a  woman  of 
Miss  Digby's  class." 

He  had  studied  Ethel  so  well,  he  knew  how  to  practice 
on  every  weakness — he  could  play  upon  her  feelings,  her 
faults,  her  virtues,  as  a  clever  musician  upon  a  harp.  He 
knew  that  she  would  do  and  dare  more  from  a  spirit  of  op- 
position to  Miss  Digby  than  from  love  for  himself. 

"  Ethel,"  he  continued,  "  give  me  a  patient  hearing.  I 
find  that  I  am  obliged  to  leave  here  suddenly — I  ought  to 
go  to  morrow — and,  oh,  my  love,  it  breaks  my  heart  to 
leave  you.  I  cannot  go  alone." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  wondering  eyes. 

"You  must  go  alone,  Laurie.  I  cannot  accompany 
you." 

"  You  could,  my  darling,  if  you  would  be  only  a  little 
braver  than  other  women  are — a  little  more  courageous. 


!  oo  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE'. 

Ethel,  let  me  make  you  my  wife  quite  secretly,  and  then 
go  away  with  me." 

"I  cannot,"  she  replied  "papa  would  never  forgive 
me." 

"  Yes,  he  would.  Hundreds  of  marriages  take  place 
in  the  same  way.  He  would  forgive  you  directly." 

"  But  it  would  not  be  right.  I  could  not  do  it ;  do  not 
ask  me,  Laurie." 

"  It  would  be  quite  right,  my  darling.  Where  did  you 
tell  me  your  father  was  !  " 

"  He  is  at  Vienna  "  she  said,  gently.  "  But,  Laurie,  I 
can  never  consent." 

The  deadly  despair  that  came  over  him  at  the  thought 
of  losing  her  frightened  him. 

"  Ethel,  listen  to  reason.  Marry  me,  and  I  will  take 
you  to  Austria  ;  we  will  go  to  your  father  and  ask  him  to 
forgive  us."  He  had  not  the  least  intention  of  doing  what 
he  said,  but  he  knew  the  idea  would  please  her.  "  Such  a 
step  as  that  would  have  one  effect,"  he  said ;  "  your  father 
would  never  afterward  marry  Miss  Digby." 

Her  whole  heart  changed  as  he  said  the  words. 

"  He  would  never  marry  Miss  Digby !  Oh,  Laurie,  are 
you  quite  sure  of  that  ?" 

"Quite  sure,"  he  replied.  "Your  father  would  ask 
himself  o'f  what  use  would  it  be  to  marry  a  woman  who  had 
not  been  able  to  keep  his  daughter  under  control  ?  He 
could  not  believe  in  her  prudence  or  discretion  after  that. 
He  would  not  be  angry  with  you,  but  he  would  be  so  angry 
with  her  that  he  would  in  all  probability  refuse  to  see  or 
speak  to  her  again." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  cried  Ethel. 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  Then  there  is  another  thing,  Ethel. 
Your  father's  chief  object  in  marrying  is  to  secure  a  friend 
and  adviser  for  you.  If  you  were  married,  there  would  be 
no  need  for  such  a  friend/' 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


Her  face  grew  brighter  still. 

"  There  would  not,  indeed,''  she  said. 

"  I  am  quite  certain,  Ethel,"  he  continued,  "  that  if  you 
consent  to  my  wish  your  father  will  never  marry  at  all." 

"  If  I  thought  so,  I  would  say  *  Yes  '  at  once,  Laurie." 

His  heart  beat  with  triumph,  yet  he  felt  almost  ashamed 
of  the  manner  in  which  that  triumph  was  won. 

"  It  would  really  be  a  grand  jest,  Ethel,  to  go  to  Vienna 
as  my  wife,  and  let  your  father  see  of  what  little  use  Miss 
Digby  is  after  all.  He  would  see  then  that  she  is  not 
capable  of  taking  care  of  you,  but  that  you  were  and  are 
quite  capable  of  taking  care  of  yourself.  How  surprised 
he  would  be  to  find  that  Miss  Digby  had  failed  I  " 

"  You  tempt  me,  Laurie,"  she  said  gently.  "  You  do 
not  think,  then,  that  my  father  would  be  very  angry  ?  " 

"  He  would  not  be  angry  at  all,  darling — who  could  be 
angry  with  you  ? — but  he  would  see  how  very  much  he  had 
overrated  Miss  Digby." 

"  It  would  be  a  great  triumph,"  she  remarked  ;  "  but 
would  it  be  right  ?  " 

"  Right  to  keep  your  father's  love  for  yourself— right 
to  expose  the  incapacity  of  the  woman  he  has  selected  to 
be  your  adviser — right  to  make  the  man  you  have  honored 
with  your  love  happy  ?  How  can  you  ask  me,  Ethel  ? 
Most  certainly  it  would  be  right.  You  told  me,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  that  Miss  Digby  had  warned  you  against  me. 
Imagine  the  triumph  of  going  with  me  into  her  presence, 
and  of  saying  to  her,  *  Here  is  the  man  against  whom  you 
warned  me  ;  he  is  my  husband  now  \ '  Imagine  her  anger, 
her  mortification.  They  would  be  immeasurable,  Ethel." 

The  idea  took  possession  of  Ethel.  To  obtain  such 
glorious  revenge  upon  her  rival  she  would  have  committed 
any  act  short  of  dishonor  or  sin. 

She  hardly  heard  the  half- whispered,  pleading,  pas- 
sionate words,  so  completely  had  this  idea  taken  possession 


I  OS  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

of  her.  \  She  could.  Aot  have  devised  sweeter  triumph, 
more  bitter  revenge,  as  regarded  the  woman  who  had 
stepped  between  her  and  the  bright  pleasures  of  her  life. 
She  had  been  chosen  for  her  prudence,  her  discretion,  her 
womanly  wisdom,  her  capability  of  guidance.  If  she  could 
convince  her  father  that  Helen  Digby  had  none  of  these 
qualities,  he  would  surely  abandon  all  idea  of  marrying 
her.  He  would  own  that  he  had  been  mistaken — the  Gor- 
dons were  proud  even  in  their  humility — and  there  would 
be  an  end  of  it. 

Her  beautiful  face  flushed,  and  a  proud  defiant  light 
came  into  her  eyes.  He  was  thinking  of  nothing  but  love 
and  winning  her — she  was  thinking  solely  of  revenge. 

With  the  stars  shining  down  upon  her,  and  the  night 
wind  whispering  around  her,  she  gave  herself  up  to  this 
dream  of  revenge.  Suppose  that  she  yielded  to  Laurie — 
that  on  Thursday  she  met  and  married  him — that  they 
afterward  went  home  and  together  sought  Helen  Digby's 
presence — what  a  triumph  it  would  be  !  She  pictured  to 
herself  the  scene — how  she  would  take  Laurie's  hand  in 
her  own  and  say,  "  Miss  Digby,  this  is  the  gentleman  you 
warned  me  against — he  is  my  husband  now.  I  married 
him  this  morning,  and  we  are  going  to  join  my  father  in 
Austria.  He  will  know  how  to  appreciate  your  watchful 
care." 

She  smiled  as  she  pictured  the  dismay  on  Helen  Digby's 
face  ;  the  triumph  would  be  complete  and  sweet — she  could 
ask  no  greater.  It  was  characteristic  of  her  that  she  gave 
no  thought  to  the  future.  This  marriage,  if  she  agreed  to 
it,  would  restore  her  to  her  father's  love — her  lost  position. 
She  never  once  remembered  that  if  she  became  Laurie 
Nugent's  wife  she  must  go  away  and  live  with  him.  She 
never  once  thought  of  the  future— whether  he  would  go  to 
Fountayne  or  London ;  she  only  remembered  that  she 
could  take  no  greater  vengeance  on  Helen  Digby  than  by 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  IO3 

proving  to  Sir  Leonard  that  he  was  quite  mistaken  in  his 
estimate  of  her.  That  the  vengeance  might  recoil  on  her 
own  head  did  not  occur  to  her.  She  never  thought  of 
the  consequences  of  her  marriage ;  she  thought  that 
Laurie  Nugent  loved  her  very  dearly,  and  that  all  his  hap- 
piness depended  on  her.  If  she  could  make  him  happy, 
regain  her  lost  position,  keep  her  father's  love,  and  take 
revenge  on  Miss  Digby  all  at  one  stroke,  how  thankful 
she  ought  to  be  !  Then  she  roused  herself  to  hear  what  he 
was  saying. 

"  I  have  my  faults,  Ethel,  but  my  love  for  you  is 
greater  than  I  can  tell — it  fills  my  whole  heart  and  leaves 
room  for  nothing  more.  If  you  refuse  me,  Ethel,  and  I 
have  to  leave  you,  I  shall  become  a  desperate  man — I  shall 
care  for  nothing,  shall  go  to  ruin  as  fast  as  I  can  go  ;  life 
will  have  no  interest,  no  charm  for  me.  If  you  will  trust 
me,  will  grant  my  prayer  and  be  my  wife,  I  will  make  you 
the  happiest  woman  in  all  the  wide  world." 

He  stopped  suddenly,  and  by  the  light  of  the  stars  he 
saw  her  beautiful  face  raised  to  his. 

"  Is  it  right,  Laurie  ?  Will  people  blame  me  afterward, 
and  say  I  have  done  an  unwomanly  action  ?  " 

There  was  something  like  remorse  in  his  heart  when 
he  answered,  with  all  appearance  of  frankness — "  No. 
No  one  would  ever  blame  her — people  did  things  of  that 
kind  every  day.  If  there  was  any  wrong,  any  harm  in  it, 
he  would  not  ask  her  to  do  it." 

"  No,"  she  said,  with  the  simple  faith  of  a  child,  "  I 
am  quite  sure  you  would  not." 

It  had  never  occurred  to  her  to  ask  him  any  questions 
about  his  position,  his  ability  to  keep  a  wife,  his  income, 
his  source  of  revenue — she  had  never  thought  of  it.  She 
thought  of  two  things  only — her  desire  to  prevent  her 
father's  marriage,  and  her -desire  to  make  Laurie  Nugent 
happy. 


104  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

Neither  of  these  two  motives  would  have  been  strong 
enough  to  influence  her  separately — the  two  combined 
conquered  her.  In  after  years  she  wondered  at  her  own 
reckless  want  of  thought,  her  carelessness,  her  utter  disre- 
gard of  all  consequences.  "  I  must  have  been  blind,"  she 
said,  "  when  I  consented — nay,  I  must  have  been  mad  ! " 

The  time  never  came  when  she  confessed  that  love  of 
Laurie  Nugent  had  influenced  her — of  all  the  motives  stir- 
ring in  her  heart  and  helping  her  on  to  ruin,  that  was  the 
feeblest.  She  believed  that  she  loved  him  ;  yet  afterward, 
when  real  love  came  to  her — the  royal  dower  of  noble 
women — she  knew  that  for  Laurie  Nugent  she  had  felt  noth 
ing  but  a  kindly,  pleasant,  almost  indifferent  affection,  and 
that  he  had  won  her  by  dint  of  flattering  homage  and  de- 
votion which  few  women  could  have  resisted. 

She  wondered,  too,  in  the  long,  sad  after-years,  how 
she  could  have  so  far  forgotten  her  own  ideas  of  right  and 
wrong — how  she  could  have  taken  pleasure  in  revenge  so 
unworthy  of  a  Gordon — how  she  could  have  been  so  deaf 
to  all  the  appeals  of  her  better  self,  her  nobler  nature — 
how  she  could  have  rushed  so  blindly,  so  madly  on  her 
fate.  If  she  had  had  the  excuse  of  passionate  love,  it  would 
have  been  better  for  her — it  would  have  lessened  her  folly, 
it  would  have  been  some  excuse  for  her  rashness  ;  but  she 
was  not  influenced  by  love. 

"  Ethel,"  said  Laurie,  "  you  are  so  silent  that  I  begin 
to  fear.  Can  you  fanoy  how  a  drowning  man  would  pray  if 
in  the  midst  of  a  fierce,  raging  sea  he  saw  a  spar  to  which 
he  could  cling  ?  Yet  no  such  man  could  plead  for  life  as 
I  plead  for  the  one  word — ,  '  Yes.'  Q,  Ethel  !  I  love  you 
so  dearly !  Could  you  live  for  a  thousand  years,  you 
would  never  know  such  love  again.  My  darling,  will  you 
consent  ?  " 

Still  she  hesitated,  but  she  was  young,  and  the  passion 
of  his  words  was  beginning  to  influence  her.  Her  face 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  !  05 

softened  and  grew  tender,  her  voice  became  a  sweet,  musi- 
cal murmur ;  she  left  her  white,  jewelled  hand  in  her 
lover's  clasp,  and  he  wooed  her  with  such  earnest  devotion 
his  handsome  face  flushed  with  eagerness,  his  eyes  and 
lips  eloquent  with  love — he  wooed  her  with  such  eloquent 
words,  with  such  passion,  such  poetry,  such  romance,  that 
it  would  have  been  hard  for  her  to  resist.  Had  it  been  in 
the  broad  light  of  noon,  in  the  garish  light  of  day,  she 
would  perhaps  have  hardened  her  heart  against  him,  and 
have  said  "  No  ; "  but  the  hour  of  night  had  its  own  witch- 
ery, its  own  glamour — the  air  was  so  fragrant  with  rich 
perfume,  that  light  of  the  stars  so  tender  and  so  pure,  the 
whisper  of  the  western  wind  so  sweet  and  low,  the  silence 
of  the  summer  night  so  beautiful,  that  the  place  and  its 
surroundings  mastered  her.  She  did  not  resist  when  he 
clasped  his  arm  round  her,  and  bending  down,  kissed  the 
fair  face,  his  heart  beating  as  he  thought  that  the  proud 
young  beauty  would  so  soon  be  all  his  own. 

"  You  are  willing,  Ethel  ?  "  he  whispered  ;  and  she  re- 
plied,— 

"  Yes,  I  am  willing,  Laurie." 

"You  have  chosen  wisely — and,  believe  me,  my  darling, 
you  will  never  repent  your  choice.  You  can  imagine  what 
a  life  you  would  have  had  if  your  father  had  returned  and 
married  Miss  Digby.  There  would  have  been  no  love  to 
spare  for  you.  She  would  have  made  herself  complete 
mistress  of  your  father's  house,  and  you  would  have  been 
compelled  to  submit  to  her  as  a  little  child.  You  would 
have  found  such  a  life  intolerable.  Now  you  will  have  free- 
dom, liberty,  brightness,  all  that  you  value  most." 

Yet  even  as  he  spoke  he  knew  that  he  had  bound  her 
in  heaviest  chains. 

"  I  ought  to  go  in  now,"  said  Ethel.  "  Suppose  that  I 
should  be  missed  ?  " 

"  Nay,  no  happier  hour  will  come  to  us,  Ethel,  than 


!  06  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

this.  The  grand  shore  of  the  golden  land  is  shining  be« 
fore  us.  We  may  not  be  happier  when  we  reach  it  than 
standing,  as  we  do  now,  gazing  upon  it.  Stay  just  a  little 
longer.  O,  Ethel — my  beautiful,  proud  Ethel — if  I  could 
linger  here  with  you  while  life  lasted  !  " 

There  was  somewhat  of  pain,  of  regret,  of  remorse,  of 
unhappiness  in  his  voice  which  touched  her  generous  heart 
more  than  all  his  love  had  done. 

"  Are  you  not  happy  now,  Laurie  ? "  she  asked  ;  and 
he  thought  her  voice  had  never  been  so  sweet. 

"  Happy,  my  darling  ?  I  am  frightened  at  my  own 
happiness.  I  find  myself  wishing  that  I  were  richer  than 
a  millionaire,  so  that  I  might  surround  you  with  everything 
most  precious  and  bright.  I  find  myself  wishing  that  I 
had  the  goodness  of  a  saint,  that  I  might  be  more  worthy 
of  you.  Happy  ?  Ah,  Ethel,  I  wonder  if  you  will  ever 
know  the  keen  rapture  of  such  joy  as  mine  ?  " 

As  they  walked  beneath  the  fragrant  limes,  and  he  told 
her,  in  the  most  tender  and  eloquent  words  he  could  com- 
mand, over  and  over  again,  the  story  of  his  love,  she  saw 
how  mighty  it  was — how  it  filled  his  heart,  filled  his  soul ; 
and  she  was  touched  by  the  strength  of  such  affection. 
She  was  nearer  loving  him  in  that  hour  than  she  had  ever 
been,  and  for  the  time  she  almost  forgot  her  desire  for 
revenge. 

The  silence  of  the  summer  night  deepened  ;  one  by 
one  the  lights  in  the  windows  of  the  hotel  were  extin- 
guished, and  Ethel  suddenly  rememberd  how  late  it  was. 

"  I  must  go,  Laurie,"  she  said. 

He  dared  not  ask  her  to  remain.  He  must  be  prudent 
for  a  few  hours  longer,  and  then  she  would  be  his  own — ? 
he  could  take  her  away  over  the  wide  seas,  where  there 
would  be  no  more  need  for  prudence  or  restraint.  He 
had  deceived  her — for  in  his  own  mind  he  knew  perfectly 
well  that  he  had  no  idea  of  taking  her  to  Vienna,  or  of 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  1 07 

ever  allowing  her  to  see  her  father  again—  he  best  knew 
why.  He  knew,  too,  that  the  imaginary  incident  he  had 
amused  her  with — the  interview  between  Miss  Digby  and 
herself — would  never  take  place.  He  meant  to  marry  her 
on  Thursday.  They  would  be  obliged  to  part  for  a  few 
hours.  While  those  few  hours  lasted  he  intended  to  bind 
her  over  to  secrecy,  and  for  the  rest  he  trusted  to  his  own 
ready  wit.  Let  him  once  make  sure  of  her — once  marry 
her — and  he  would  ask  no  more. 

"  Ethel,  before  you  go,  will  you  listen  to  my  arrange- 
ments for  you  ? " 

She  stopped — and  he  never  forgot  her  as  he  saw  her 
then,  the  starlight  falling  on  her  upraised  face,  showing 
every  exquisite  feature  in  the  soft  light,  the  dainty  head 
held  proudly  up,  the  shining  folds  of  her  dress  falling 
around  her,  and  her  white  hands  clasped.  He  could  not 
quite  understand  the  expression  of  her  face  ;  he  read  on 
it  the  simple  faith  of  a  child,  mingled  with  the  dawn  of 
tenderness — no  anxiety,  no  fear. 

"  To-morrow  will  be  Wednesday,  and  I  will  devote  the 
whole  of  it  to  making  arrangements.  You  have  heard  of 
the  pretty  little  town  of  Holmleigh — not  far — not  above 
two  miles  from  St.  Ina's  ?  It  has  an  old  church  called  St. 
Ann's  ;  and  I  thought,  Ethel,  my  darling,  we  would  be 
married  there." 

She  did  not  reply.  The  marriage  itself  did  not  inter- 
est  her  so  much  as  the  interview  with  Miss  Digby  which 
was  to  follow  it. 

"  I  will  procure  a  special  license,  so  that  we  shall  have 
no  difficulty,  and  I  will,  with  your  consent,  my  darling, 
arrange  the  time  for  half-past  eight  on  Thursday  morning. 
You  can  rise  as  early  as  you  generally  do ;  and  it  is  no 
unusual  thing  for  you  to  take  an  early  morning  ramble. 
Suppose  you  do  so.  Miss  Digby  will  think  you  have  gone 
out  into  the  woods.  I  will  meet  .you,  and  we  can  walk  to 


1 08  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE: 

Holmleigh  Church.  We  are  not  likely,  in  this  quiet  place, 
to  encounter  any  one,  or  to  be  seen — and  the  church  stands 
quite  by  itself,  you  know,  at  the  foot  of  a  hill  just  before 
you  enter  the  town.  We  can  return  by  separate  roads." 

"  And  then  ?  "  she  questioned,  eagerly. 

He  knew  well  of  what  she  was  thinking.  \ 

"  Then  we  can  have  the  grand  interview  with  Miss 
Digby,"  he  said — "  and  very  amusing  it  will  be.  I  can 
imagine  so  well  what  she  will  say,  and  how  she  will  look. 
After  that,  my  darling,  we  will  lose  no  time — we  will  start 
at  once  for  Austria." 

The  untruth  did  not  trouble  him.  He  found  her  so 
easy  to  manage  that  he  felt  sure,  when  they  came  out  of 
church,  he  would  be  able  to  invent  some  story  or  other 
that  would  satisfy  her. 

"  Do  you  consent  to  these  arrangements,  Ethel  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  Yes ;  I  cannot  object.  You  are  quite  sure  it  is  right, 
Laurie  ?  " 

"  I  am  certain  it  is,"  he  replied,  with  a  ready  confidence 
that  cheered  her ;  and  then,  bending  over  her,  he  wished  her 
good-night. 

She  preferred  to  go  back  to  the  house  alone.  He 
stood  and  watched  her,  his  heart  thrilling  with  the  thought 
that  in  a  short  time  that  fair  young  girl  would  be  his 
wife. 

It  seemed  strange  that  when  he  entered  the  hotel  his 
first  question  was  as  to  whether  any  strangers  had  arrived. 
"  No."  was  the  reply ;  "  St.  Ina's  has  never  been  more 
quiet." 

"  I  am  safe,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  If  there  had  been 
any  truth  in  that  report,  they  would  have  been  here  before 
this.  Give  me  forty-eight  hours  more,  and  I  shall  be  over 
the  sea  with  my  proud,  beautiful  Ethel." 

Little  did  Helen  Digby  dream  of  the  conspiracy  form- 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  !  Og 

ing  against  her.  She  was  happier  than  she  had  been  since 
her  arrival  at  St.  Ina's.  She  believed  Ethel  was  beginning 
to  like  her ;  there  had  been  more  of  gentleness  in  her  man- 
ner, and  something  which  Helen  could  not  define — a 
shadow  of  regret.  Ethel  herself  slept  well ;  it  was  wonder- 
ful how  blind  she  was  to  the  enormity  of  the  step  she  con* 
templated.  Laurie  Nugent  was  the  last  person  she 
dreamed  of ;  her  father,  Helen  Digby,  even  Lady  Stafton, 
occupied  her  thoughts  more  often  than  he  did.  Laurie 
was  to  prevent  her  father's  marriage — Laurie  was  to  restore 
her  to  her  own  position  at  Fountayne— Laurie  worshipped 
her  more  fondly  and  truly — so  he  said — than  man  ever 
worshipped  woman  before  ;  so  she  was  grateful  to  him.  He 
had  been  the  first  to  give  any  romance  to  her  girlish 
dreams  ;  it  was  from  him  that  she  had  first  learned  how  be- 
witching and  charming  she  was ;  he  had  ministered  to  her 
pride,  her  vanity,  her  love  of  power,  and,  therefore,  she 
was  grateful  to  him,  and  had  consented  to  marry  him  with 
far  greater  heedlessness  than  she  would  have  promised  to 
walk  out  with  him, 


!  i  o  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE, 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

ETHEL  GORDON  smiled  when  Helen  Digby  bade  her 
good-morning,  and,  contrary  to  her  usual  rule,  kissed  her. 

"  You  are  looking  so  well,  this  morning,  Ethel,"  she 
said ;  "  your  face  has  all  the  bloom  and  freshness  of  a 
rose." 

More  than  once  that  day  Ethel  wondered  if  anything 
would  happen  to  prevent  their  marriage.  She  might  have 
known  the  state  of  her  heart  from  the  fact  that,  whenever 
she  thought  of  any  obstacle  arising,  her  regret  was  not  to 
be  able  to  enjoy  her  triumph  over  Miss  Digby.  She 
thought  but  little  of  any  pain  that  might  arise  from  losing 
Laurie  Nugent. 

But  it  was  not  in  the  decrees  of  fate  that  anything 
should  happen  to  prevent  the  marriage  of  Sir  Leonard's 
daughter. 

Early  on  Wednesday  morning  Laurie  Nugent  went  over 
to  Holmleigh  to  make  arrangements  for  the  marriage.  The 
story  he  told  to  the  rector  of  St,  Ann's — the  Rev.  Mr. 
Brian — was  fully  known  only  to  himself.  There  was  some 
pathetic  history  of  an  orphan  girl  living  in  some  uncongen- 
ial, unhappy  home,  and  he,  on  the  point  of  starting  for 
abroad,  on  a  most  sudden  and  unexpected  journey,  wished 
to  marry  her  and  take  her  with  him.  Mr.  Brian  thought 
himself  doing  a  very  meritorious  deed  when  he  consented 
to  marry  them. 

Then  Laurie  Nugent  made  all  other  needful  arrange- 
ments— instead  of  going  to  Austria,  he  intended  to  start 
at  once  for  America.  "  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Nugent  "  were  to 
take  their  passage  in  one  of  the  steamers  belonging  to  the 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  j  T  x 

great  Inman  line.  He  had  thought  over  this  plan 
for  some  time,  and  then  decided  that  it  was  quite 
safe.  He  did  not  intend  to  give  Ethel  time  to  say  anything  to 
Miss  Digby,  nor  did  he  intend  any  of  them  to  see  her 
again. 

"  She  must  share  my  lot  henceforward,"  he  said,  "  and 
forget  all  about  them." 

Then  it  struck  him  that  much  as  Ethel  had  spoken  to 
him  of  her  home,  he  had  never  asked  her  where  it  was, 
nor  had  he  made  any  inquiries  as  to  her  father's  rank  in 
life. 

"  It  shows  how  deeply  and  hearly  I  love  the  girl,"  he 
thought  to  himself.  "  I  have  never  stopped  to  ask  one 
question  about  her  affairs.  If  she  had  all  the  money  in 
the  world,  I  could  love  her  no  more  than  I  do  ;  if  she  has 
none,  I  love  her  just  as  much.  The  chances  are  that,  if 
she  were  the  greatest  heiress  in  England,  it  would  be  im- 
possible for  me  ever  to  claim  what  is  hers.  It  is  Ethel  I 
want — Ethel  with  her  grand  dower  of  youthful  beauty — and 
not  money." 

He  arranged  in  his  own  mind  that  when  they  were 
married  he  would  return  at  once  to  the  hotel,  while  Ethel 
lingered  in  the  woods ;  he  would  send  all  his  luggage  away 
and  with  it,  unnoticed,  two  large  boxes  of  hers.  They 
could  meet  together  at  the  station  and  come  away  from  St. 
Ina's,  he  would  defy  fate.  Ethel  would  want  to  have  her  own 
way — to  throw  down  the  gauntlet  of  defiance  to  Miss  Dig- 
by  ;  but  he  would  invent  some  excuse  for  getting  her  to  the 
station,  and  then,  finding  resistance  useless,  she  would 
submit.  Everything  was  arranged  in  his  own  mind,  and  to 
his  own  satisfaction,  when  he  returned  to  the  Queen's 
Hotel. 

Some  gentleman  who  played  very  beautifully  on  the  harp 
had  been  asked  to  give  the  ladies  the  pleasure  of  hearing 
him  5  the  harp  was  brought  out  on  to  the  lawn,  and  when 


I !  2  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

Laurie  Nugent  arrived  there  was  quite  a  concert.  He 
thought  of  the  scene  for  years  afterward — the  sun  shining 
so  brightly  on  the  lawn  and  gleaming  in  the  fountains,  the 
flowers  all  in  bloom,  the  rustling  foliage  of  the  limes  look- 
ing golden  in  the  brilliant  light,  the  soft,  sweet  music  sound- 
ing above  the  song  of  the  birds,  and  the  murmur  of  the 
fountains.  He  saw  Helen  Digby  seated  by  Lady  Stafton's 
side,  each  listening  intently  to  the  music.  He  went  over  to 
them,  and  Helen  looked  up  at  him  with  a  kindly  smile. 

"  You  have  been  away  all  day,  have  you  not,  Mr  Nu- 
gent ?" 

Ethel  was  standing  by  her  side,  and  Laurie  stole  a  glance 
at  her  as  he  replied, — 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  away  on  very  important  business, 
and  I  am  glad  to  say  that  I  have  met  with  perfect  success/' 

Their  eyes  met  for  a  moment,  and  then  hers  drooped, 
and  a  burning  blush  spread  over  her  lovely  face. 

"  Success  is  always  charming,"  said  Helen,  little  dream- 
ing what  Laurie  Nugent's  success  implied. 

"  I  have  never  found  it  so  welcome  as  in  the  case  of  the 
business  I  have  been  about  to-day/ '  he  said,  laughing. 

He  lingered  with  them,  talking  principally  to  Miss  Dig- 
by,  and  glancing  occasionally  at  the  beautiful  face  drooping 
over  the  flowers.  As  for  Ethel,  she  saw  nothing,  she  heard 
nothing,  plainly  ;  it  was  one  confusing  whirl  to  her.  The 
whisper  of  the  wind,  the  rushing  of  the  leaves,  the  rippling 
of  the  fountains,  the  music  of  the  harp,  all  said  but  one 
thing  to  her — "  I  am  to  be  married  to-morrow."  She  heard 
those  words — "  married  to-morrow  " — in  every  sound  that 
fell  upon  her  ears,  until  she  began  to  wonder  whether  she 
was  losing  her  reason  or  not. 

It  was  one  of  the  pleasantest  and  gayest  evenings  that 
had  ever  been  spent  at  the  Queen's  Hotel ;  Ethel  Gordon 
remembered  it  forever  afterward.  Years  were  to  pass  be- 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  1 13 

fore  beauty  and  music  and  perfume  would  have  any  charm 
for  her  again. 

The  last  question  that  Laurie  Nugent  asked  that  night, 
was  the  one  that  came  so  often  from  his  \  ,ps, — 

"  Have  any  strangers  arrived  ? "  And  the  answer  was, 
as  usual ;  "  No." 


1 1 4  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

THE  morning  dawned  bright  and  fair ;  the  dew  lay 
shining  on  the  grass  and  flowers,  the  wood-pigeons  were 
cooing,  the  plover  crying  among  the  corn,  when  Ethel  Gor- 
don quietly  left  the  house  on  her  fatal  errand.  The  morn- 
ing was  not  fresher  or  fairer  than  she ;  her  face  had  the 
delicate,  exquisite  bloom  of  the  wild  rose,  her  eyes  were 
bright  as  stars,  with  the  golden  light  deepening  in  them. 
She  looked  round  on  the  scene  encircling  her,  she  raised 
her  eyes  to  the  blue  heavens,  and  thought  to  herself  how 
fair  all  Nature  was  bathed  in  the  morning  light. 

A  great  cluster  of  passion-flowers  stood  near  the  gate 
which  led  from  the  lawn  to  the  coppice.  The  coppice  led 
to  the  woods,  and  Laurie  was  waiting  there  for  her,  she 
knew  full  well. 

She  stopped  to  gather  some  of  the  sad,  grand,  mystical 
flowers — they  were  all  wet  with  dew,  which  she  flung  from 
the  leaves,  looking  into  the  flowers'  depths  and  admiring 
the  sweet  symbols.  Roses  were  growing  there,  too,  and 
large  white  lilies,  and  long  sprays  of  blue  convolvulus  ;  but 
she  passed  all  these,  and  filled  her  hands  with  the  passion- 
flowers. 

"  My  wedding-day !  "  she  thought  to  herself.  "  What 
would  my  father  think  if  he  knew  this  was  my  wedding- 
day?" 

Some  little  shadow  fell  over  the  brightness  of  the  morn- 
ing when  she  remembered  that  to-day  Helen  Digby  would 
meet  her  fate.  Then  at  the  end  of  the  coppice  she  saw 
Laurie  Nugent  with  an  impatient,  eager  look  on  his  hand- 
some face.  She  had  just  time  to  note  that  he  wore  a  beau» 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  !  j  5 

tiful  white  hyacinth,  and  then  he  caught  sight  of  her  and 
hastened  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms. 

"  My  darling  Ethel,  how  beautiful  you  look  this  morn- 
ing !  You  shame  the  sun  and  the  flowers.  Oh  Ethel,  the 
sun  may  well  shine  so  brightly — it  is  our  wedding-day  ! " 
They  walked  on  side  by  side,  and  the  beauty  of  the  scene 
deepened  in  the  wood.  The  dew  lay  more  thickly  on  the 
grass,  the  sunlight  fell  brokenly  through  the  thick  foliage, 
producing  varying  lights  and  shadows.  The  solitude  deep- 
ened, too,  and  they  seemed  to  be  walking  away  from  the 
rest  of  the  world  into  a  fairyland  of  their  own. 

Laurie  turned  to  take  her  hands  in  his  own. 

"  Shall  we  ever  see  anything  so  fair  as  this  woodland 
scene,  or  be  so  happy  again  in  this  world  ? "  he  said, 
"  Lay  your  hands  in  mine,  Ethel,  and  let  us  talk.  Smile 
your  brightest,  my  darling — it  is  our  wedding-day." 

She  gave  him  one  hand  only.  "  I  cannot  spare  the 
other,"  she  explained.  "  You  forget  my  flowers." 

His  attention  had  been  so  entirely  absorbed  in  her 
beautiful  face  that  he  had  never  even  looked  at  them  ;  but 
now  he  bent  forward,  and  she  was  startled  by  a  low  cry 
from  his  lips — by  the  sudden  pallor  of  his  face. 

"Why,  Ethel,  "he  cried,  "  these  are  passion-flowers! 
Who  ever  heard  of  a  bride  with  a  bouquet  of  passion-flowers? 
What  an  evil  omen,  my  darling  !  I  am  not  superstitious, 
but  it  has  frightened  me." 

"  Nor  am  I  superstitious,"  she  said,  laughing. 

"  Why  did  you  gather  them  ? "  he  asked.  "  Passion- 
flowers on  a  wedding  day!  Why  did  you  gather  them, 
Ethel  ? " 

"  I  do  not  know.  They  were  shining  with  dew  and 
close  to  my  hand.  I  cannot  give  you  any  other  reason 
than  that." 

"  You  will  throw  them  away,  will  you  not,  Ethel  ? " 

She  looked  admiringly  at  them,  "  I  think  not,"  she  re- 


1 16  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

plied.  "That  would  be  giving  way  to  superstition,  1 
come  of  a  race  that  knows  no  fear,  that  never  looks  back, 
that  abides  by  what  is  done.  The  motto  of  our  house  is, 
*  Gordon  abides  by  what  Gordon  does.'  I  gathered  these 
flowers  thoughtlessly,  I  own,  for  my  wedding  bouquet,  but  I 
shall  take  them  with  me." 

"  It  is  an  evil  omen,  Ethel." 

"  We  will  pay  no  heed  to  it.     I  have  no  faith  in  omens." 

But  he  gave  her  no  answering  smile. 

"  Throw  them  away,  Ethel,  I  implore  you." 

The  idea  seemed  to  her  both  weak  and  cowardly. 

"  They  must  go  with  me  "  she  returned.  "  What  in- 
fluence can  it  have  on  my  future  life  that  I  was  married 
with  passion-flowers  in  my  hand  ?  " 

Seeing  that  she  would  not  yield,  Laurie  said  no  more. 
They  walked  on  through  the  dewy  brightness  of  the  sum- 
mer woods  until  the  spire  of  the  old  church  came  in  view, 
and  then  Ethel  stopped  and  her  face  lost  its  color. 

"  Laurie,  it  is  a  serious  thing,  marriage.  I  am  almost 
frightened  at  it  now." 

"  *  Gordon  abides  by  what  Gordon  does, ' "  he  quoted. 
"  You  have  .promised,  Ethel ;  you  must  not  break  your 
"word." 

"  I  have  no  thought  of  doing  so,"  she  replied,  haughtily  ; 
"but  I  am  frightened.  I  had  forgotten  how  solemn  a 
thing  marriage  is.  We  are  going  into  a  church,  and 
churches  always  seem  to  me  so  near  to  heaven.  O,  Laurie, 
Laurie  ! "  she  cried,  "  marriage  lasts  until  death,  and  I  am 
not  sure  if  I  love  you  well  enough." 

But  he  endeavored  to  calm  her. 

"  My  darling  Ethel,  you  are  nervous.  You  are  usually 
brave,  my  love  ;  you  must  not  lose  courage.  Ethel,  like 
other  young  girls,  have  you  ever  dreamed  of  your  wed< 
ding-day  ? " 

"  Not  often,"  she  replied. 


REPENTED  AT  LEISURE 


117 


"  Did  you  ever  think  it  would  be  like  this — walking 
through  a  dewy  summer  wood,  the  morning  air  fresh  and 
sweet  on  your  face,  the  song  of  the  birds  in  your  ears,  the 
flowers,  like  a  bevy  of  fair  bride-maids,  blooming  around 


you  ?  " 


"  No,"  she  answered  ;  "  I  never  dreamed  of  such  a  wed- 


ding as  this.' 


They  entered  the  churchyard,  and  once  more  Laurie 
Nugent  asked  her  to  throw  the  passion-flowers  away. 
Once  more  she  refused ;  and  by  the  green  graves  o£  the 
silent  dead,  Sir  Leonard's  daughter — bright,  beautiful,  p-oud 
Ethel  Gordon — passed  on  her  way  to  the  marriage 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


CHAPTER.  XVIII. 

ETHEL  GORDON  never  forgot  that  old  church  of  St,  Ann's 
—a  gray  old  building  with  tapering  spire.  As  she  entered, 
she  seemed  to  bring  with  her  the  fragrance  of  the  limes  and 
the  wild  flowers. 

At  first  it  seemed  as  though  the  church  were  filled  with 
a  gray,  soft  gloom  ;  and  then,  at  the  east  end,  Ethel  saw  a 
great  stained-glass  window,  a  very  marvel  of  richness  and 
color.  The  sun  was  shining  full  upon  it,  and  great  patches 
of  purple  and  crimson,  of  orange  and  blue,  of  violet  and 
green,  lay  on  the  floor,  on  the  carved  oaken  seats,  on  chan- 
cel and  nave.  There  were  figures  of  triumphant  saints  on 
the  window — saints  with  palm-branches  and  golden  crowns. 
In  after  years  she  found  each  one  impressed  upon  her 
memory.  There  was  a  silence — a  stillness — a  holy  calm 
that  seemed  to  be  breathed  from  heaven ;  it  was  broken 
only  by  the  song  of  the  birds  outside  and  the  rustling  of 
the  leaves  in  the  wind. 

Ethel  knelt  down,  her  heart  beating  fast  with  emotion. 
What  she  had  said  was  perfectly  true — she  had  not  reflected 
upon  the  solemn  aspect  of  marriage  ;  and  it  came  to 
her  like  a  shock.  Revenge  upon  Helen  Digby !  No  such 
thoughts  could  live  in  that  holy  calm ;  they  fled  from  her, 
leaving  the  one  fact  bare — that  she  was  about  to  become 
Laurie  Nugent's  wife.  It  came  upon  her  almost  like  a 
shock.  Even  then,  late  as  it  was,  she  would  have  aban- 
doned her  project — she  would  have  given  up  all  idea  of  re- 
venge and  of  marriage.  Something  of  this  Laurie  Nugent 
must  have  read  in  her  face,  for  he  grasped  her  hand,  whis- 
pering,— 

"  It  is  too  late  now  \  we  must  go  on  with,  it,  my  queen." 


REPENTED  AT  LEISURE.  Iig 

She  looked  at  the  pictured  faces  of  the  saints  with 
golden  crowns — a  wild  idea  took  possession  of  her  to  cry 
out  to  some  one  to  save  her — that  she  been  entrapped, 
over  persuaded — that  she  did  not  love  the  man  she  was 
going  to  marry  ;  and  again  the  keen  instinct  of  his  pas- 
sionate love  told  Laurie  Nugent  the  nature  of  her  thoughts. 

"  You  are  filled  with  nervous  fancies,  my  dear  EtheL 
Hark  !  the  very  birds  seem  to  sing  more  joyfully  because 
it  is  our  wedding-day." 

While  he  was  saying  the  words  a  white-haired  minister 
entered,  and  Laurie  Nugent  and  Ethel  went  up  to  the  altar 
together — the  altar  that  was  beneath  the  great  eastern  win- 
dow, from  which  the  mystical  lights  were  falling.  Two 
witnesses  were  there,  but  Laurie  Nugent  never  even  saw 
them  ;  they  were  servants  from  the  rectory,  whom  the  rec- 
tor had  told  to  be  present.  Laurie  Nugent  never  saw  them, 
for  his  whole  attention  was  engrossed  by  his  young  bride.. 
For  the  first  time  he  noticed  her  dress — a  soft,  shining 
violet  silk  ;  and  just  where  she  stood  the  light  from  the 
stained  glass  window  fell  upon  her — one  great  dash  of  pur- 
ple lay  at  her  feet,  a  bar  of  crimson  quivered  on  her  dress,, 
and  on  the  beautiful  head  there  shone  a  glow  of  gold.  Her 
lovely  face  was  pale  with  emotion,  yet  it  shone  like  a  fair 
flower  amidst  the  mystical  lights — fairer  than  the  pictured! 
faces  of  the  saints  ;  and  in  her  hand  she  still  held  the 
dewy  passion  flowers. 

No  artist  ever  dreamed  of  a  picture  more  fair.  Laurie 
Nugent's  eyes  lingered  upon  her  ;  and  then  the  solemn,, 
beautiful  marriage  service  commenced. 

"  Wilt  thou  have  this  man  to  be  thy  wedded  husband  ? '' 

As  she  gave  one  glance  at  the  golden  crowns  of  the 
saints,  and  one  at  the  white-haired  minister,  whose  head 
was  so  reverently  bent,  the  impulse  again  seized  her  to  cry- 
out  ;  but  Laurie  Nugent  looked  at  her,  and  held  her  hand 
tightly,  and  she  said  the  words  that  made  her  his  wife. 


x  20  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

She  bent  her  head  when  the  rector  uttered  the  blessing, 
and  at  that  moment  a  sudden  gleam  of  the  sun  threw  a 
crimson  light  over  the  bowed  head,  filling  the  young  hus- 
band's heart  with  dread. 

"  Come  away  from  that  window,  Ethel/  he  said.  "  I 
cannot  bear  to  see  you  in  the  midst  of  those  changing 
lights." 

She  obeyed  him  ;  and  then,  in  a  few  minutes  the  cere- 
mony was  ended.  He  left  her  kneeling  there,  while  he 
gave  the  rector  such  a  fee  as  astonished  him,  and  one  to 
each  of  the  witnesses.  He  went  into  the  vestry,  and  Mr. 
Byran  shook  him  by  the  hand. 

"  I  wish  you  every  happiness,"  he  said  ;  "  and  I  must 
ask  you  to  pardon  my  saying  that  I  have  never  seen  a 
more  lovely  bride.  Be  kind  and  loyal  to  her." 

Then  he  went  away ;  but  for  long  afterwards  the  rector 
remembered  the  fair  young  girl,  as  she  stood  amidst  the 
changing  lights,  with  the  passion-flowers  in  her  hand. 

It  was  all  over — proud,  beautiful,  bright  Ethel  Gordon 
was  Laurie  Nugent's  wife.  It  seemed  to  her  like  a  dream. 
She  and  her  husband  walked,  hand  in  hand,  down  the 
broad  path,  and  then  he  noticed  that  all  the  glowing  color 
was  dying  from  the  lovely  face,  and  that  the  hand  he  held 
in  his  own  was  trembling. 

"  Ethel,"  he  said  gently,  "you  must  not  give  way  now. 
You  are  tired — faint,  perhaps  ;  all  this  has  been  too  much 
for  you.  See,  here  is  a  large  tree  ;  sit  down  under  the 
shade  of  it." 

There  was  a  little  mound  under  the  tree,  arid  she  sat 
down  upon  it,  Laurie  by  her  side.  The  rest  revived  her. 
He  looked  anxiously  in  her  face. 

"  Yeu  are  better  now,  my  queen,"  he  said.  "  Ethel,  I 
can  hardly  believe  it — it  is  our  wedding-day.  I  look  in 
your  lovely,  flower-like  face,  and  I  say  to  myself  that  it  is 
my  wife's  face.  I  hold  this  white  hand  in  mine,  and  say  I, 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  !  2 1 

this  is  my  wife's  hand  ;  but  I  do  not  realize  it  all — I  hardly 
believe  it  :  it  seems  to  me  incredible  that  I  should  have 
won  my  queen,  with  her  royal  dower  of  proud  young 
beauty." 

They  sat  for  a  few  minutes  in  silence,  and  then  Laurie 
took  the  passion-flowers  from  her. 

"I  shall  keep  these  until  I  die,"  he  said,  "remembering' 
always  that  you  held  them  while  we  were  married.  And 
now,  my  darling,  give  me  one  kiss.  Praise  your  sweet, 
fair  face  to  mine  ;  dearly  as  I  have  loved  you,  I  have 
hardly  dared  to  touch  it.  I  may  kiss  my  wife's  face,  Ethel  ?  " 

She  raised  it,  and  he  wondered  again  at  its  exquisite 
beauty ;  the  faint  flush  of  returning  color  was  more  dainty 
than  the  bloom  of  a  wild  rose.  He  bent  his  head  rever- 
ently, and  kissed  her  lips. 

"  My  wife,"  he  whispered,  "  my  beautiful  queen,  I 
could  not  love  you  more.  And  now,  Ethel,  time  is  flying 
— we  must  return.  We  will  part  at  the  gate  that  leads  to 
the  woods.  You,  my  darling,  had  better  return  through 
the  woods,  lingering  a  little  on  your  way,  for  I  must  return 
to  the  hotel  first.  If  you  are  there  by  eleven  I  will  have 
everything  ready  for  you." 

"  We  will  see  Miss  Digby  at  once,"  she  said,  with  a 
quiet  smile. 

He  did  not  think  it  was  of  any  use  to  tell  her  the  truth 
just  then. 

"  Yes,  we  will  see  her,  and  give  her  the  greatest  sur- 
prise she  has  ever  had  in  all  her  life.  What  will  she  say 
when  she  knows  that  I  am  your  husband,  and  that  we  are 
going  to  Austria  ?  " 

Ethel  laughed ;  and  then  it  struck  her  that  the  laugh 
seemed  out  of  harmony  with  the  brightness  and  beauty  of 
that  calm  summer  morning. 

"  What  time  shall  we  start  ? "  she  asked. 

Laurie  had  thought  of  an  excellent  plan,  as  he  imagined. 


!  2  2  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

He  would  get  her  away  from  St.  Ina's  under  the  pretext  of 
starting  at  once  for  Austria.  She  would  not  know  what 
tickets  he  had  purchased,  and  he  would  not  tell  her  they 
were  on  the  road  to  Liverpool  until  they  had  gone  some 
distance,  and  then  it  would  be  too  late  for  her  to  offer  any 
remonstrance.  He  thought  that  was  the  wisest  and  most 
suitable  plan  that  he  could  adopt. 

He  lingered  for  a  few  minutes  longer,  talking  of  Helen 
Digby,  dwelling  on  the  keenness  of  her  disappointment, 
and  then  it  was  time  to  go.  The  church  clock  struck 
nine,  and  an  old-fashioned  chime  played  directly  after- 
ward. 

Suddenly  Ethel  gave  a  little  cry ;  she  had  struck  her 
hand  against  the  corner  of  a  stone  that  was  hidden  in  the 
grass,  and  had  bruised  the  tender  skin. 

"  I  did  not  know  that  this  was  a  grave,"  she  said,  rising 
with  a  shudder. 

She  parted  the  long,  thick  grass,  and  looked  at  the 
broken  stone. 

"  We  have  been  sitting  on  a  child's  grave,  Laurie — a 
child  who  died  many  years  before  we  were  born.  We 
have  been  talking  about  love  with  death  so  near  to  us  !  " 

He  would  not  own  that  her  words  startled  him,  but 
they  did.  He  drew  her  gently  away,  and  then  he  bent 
and  kissed  the  little  bruised  hand. 

"  My  sweet  wife  !  "  he  said,  "  you  are  nervous  and 
tired.  You  have  strange  fancies  this  morning,  but  you 
will  soon  forget  them  all.  Now  we  must  part." 

They  had  reached  the  little  gate  that  led  to  the  woods 
— a  great  elm  grew  near  and  overshadowed  it. 

"  You  will  be  home,  then,  by  eleven,  Ethel  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied — "  and  then  for  our  grand  denote* 
ment.  Helen  Digby  may  bid  farewell  to  hope  of  ever 
being  my  father's  wife,  Laurie." 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  !  2  3 

"  She  may  indeed,"  he  agreed ;  and  then  they  stood 
for  a  few  moments  under  the  great  elm-tree. 

For  years  afterward  Laurie  Nugent  saw  Ethel  in  his 
dreams  as  he  saw  her  then,  the  sunlight  falling  on  her,  her 
sweet,  flowerlike  face  smiling  on  him,  the  fair  head  proudly 
raised  as  she  bade  him  farewell — "  only  for  a  few  hours," 
he  thought. 

For  one  minute  he  held  her  in  his  arms.  He  kissed 
her  lips  and  whispered, — 

"  I  love  you  ten  thousand  times  better  than  my  own 
life,  my  beautiful  queen  !  " 

Then  he  moved  away,  and  she  watched  him  as  he 
walked  with  rapid  steps  down  the  high-road  ;  and  no 
warning,  no  presentiment  came  to  her  of  how  they  should 
meet  again. 


! 24  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

ETHEL  watched  the  tall  figure  of  her  husband  until  he 
was  out  of  sight,  and  then  she  opened  the  gate  and  passed 
through  into  the  woods.  She  had  nearly  two  hours  to 
linger  there.  She  took  out  her  pretty  jewelled  watch,  Sir 
Leonard's  last  present,  and  looked  at  it;  it  was  five 
minutes  past  nine.  She  could  walk  to  St.  Ina's  easily  in 
half  an  hour,  so  that  she  had  plenty  of  time  to  dream  by 
the  brook  that  was  rippling  near  her. 

Amidst  the  glory  of  the  golden  sunshine  and  the  gleam 
of  the  deep  green  foliage  she  sat  down  to  rest  and  to  dream. 
The  flowers  were  blooming  around  her,  the  air  was  full  of 
music  and  perfume,  the  brook  was  hastening  onward,  and 
she  lost  herself  in  the  keen,  passionate  delight  which  na- 
ture's beauty  ever  gave  to  her.  She  surrendered  herself 
to  her  dream.  Had  she  done  right,  after  all  ?  Would  Sir 
Leonard  be  pleased  when  he  saw  her  handsome  husband, 
or  would  he  be  cross  ?  She  remembered  that  he  never 
looked  angrily  on  her  yet,  and  she  said  to  herself,  with  a 
smile,  that  he  never  would.  Then  her  fancy  strayed 
to  Helen  Digby — Helen,  whom  she  was  so  soon  and  so 
surely  to  triumph  over — Helen,  who  was  so  soon  to  be  de- 
prived of  all  her  unjustly-gained  advantages. 

Ethel  was  so  noble  and  generous  by  nature  that  she 
could  not  quite  rejoice  over  the  downfall  of  her  enemy. 
She  had  married  in  haste  purposely  to  crush  her,  but  the 
generous  heart  could  go  no  further.  When  once  Helen 
Digby  was  crushed,  then  Ethel's  own  hand  would  raise 
her.  Only  let  her  give  up  the  absurd  idea  of  marrying  Sir 
Leonard  and  reigning  at  Fountayne,  and  then  Ethel  would 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  j  2  5 

do  anything  for  her.  She  was  not  one  of  those  who  could 
pursue  a  worsted  foe,  or  triumph  maliciously  over  a  fallen 
enemy.  She  was  too  true  a  Gordon  for  that.  Even  now, 
when  the  hour  of  her  triumph  and  revenge  was  at  hand, 
she  half  relented.  Yet  she  said  to  herself  that  Helen 
Digby  had  provoked  her  own  fate.  She  should  not  have 
come  between  her  and  her  father's  love — between  her  and 
her  domain  of  Fountayne. 

The  beauty  of  the  morning  deepened ;  the  sun  shone 
more  brightly,  the  bees  hummed  more  loudly.  The  time 
was  passing,  and  still  she  sat  by  the  brook,  lost  in  her 
dreams.  There  had  come  to  her  a  sudden  revelation  of 
the  sanctity  of  marriage — how,  henceforth  and  for  ever, 
she  was  to  be  true  to  Laurie — to  love,  honor,  and  obey 
him — to  seek  happiness  by  his  side,  and  she  was  almost 
frightened  at  what  she  had  done. 

"  I  wish/'  she  said  to  herself,  "  that  I  had  thought  more 
of  the  sanctity  of  marriage,  and  less  of  revenge." 

Suddenly  she  remembered  the  time,  and,  looking  again 
at  her  watch,  found  it  was  half  past  ten.  She  must  walk 
to  St.  Ina's  by  eleven.  Good-by  to  the  leafy  shade,  the 
rippling  brook,  the  blooming  flowers,  the  sweetly  singing 
birds  ! 

She  hastened  through  the  woods.  The  wind  stirred 
the  rich  brown  hair,  arid  brought  a  lovely  color  into  her  face. 
In  the  distance  she  saw  the  shining  waters  of  the  restless 
sea ;  and  she  said  to  herself  the  hour  of  her  triumph  and 
her  enemy's  downfall  was  at  hand. 

She  reached  the  grounds  of  the  hotel,  and,  crossing  the 
lawn,  it  struck  her  that  there  was  an  unusual  stir  and 
subdued  excitement  about  the  place.  The  visitors  were 
standing  in  groups  of  twos  and  threes,  talking  eagerly  and 
earnestly.  She  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  manager ;  his  face 
was  pale  and  anxious.  As  she  approached  the  principal 
ce,  she  heard  him  say, — 


!  2  6  REPEATED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  I  would  not  have  had  such  a  disgrace  to  the  house 
for  any  amount  of  money." 

She  smiled  to  herself,  little  dreaming  what  that  disgrace 
was. 

When  she  entered  the  hall,  the  manager  and  his  wife 
and  several  of  the  servants  were  gathered  together,  and 
were  talking  in  low  tones.  At  the  end  of  the  hall  she  saw 
a  policeman,  and  farther  on  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  some 
one  bound  and  handcuffed — she  could  not  distinguish 
who  it  was.  It  did  not  concern  her,  she  thought  to  her- 
self, and  she  entered  the  drawing-room  on  the  left.  She 
hardly  gave  another  thought  to  the  matter. 

"  Some  of  the  servants  have  been  doing  wrong,"  she 
concluded.  "  I  hope  it  is  not  that  dark-eyed  Jane." 

There  was  a  large  pier-glass  in  the  room,  and  her  at- 
tention was  caught  by  her  own  picturesque  beauty.  The 
wind  had  arranged  the  rich  brown  hair  after  its  own  fashion 
— it  had  brought  a  lovely  color  into  her  face,  and  a  bright 
light  into  her  eyes ;  she  smiled  as  she  looked  at  herself, 
and  the  smile  died  slowly  away.  Long  years  were  to  pass 
before  she  ever  saw  the  same  proud  beauty  on  her  face 
again. 

Where  was  Miss  Digby,  and  where  was  her  husband, 
Laurie  Nugent  ? 

"  He  was  to  have  been  here  at  eleven,"  she  thought. 

She  listened,  thinking  that  she  heard  his  footstep,  but 
the  sound  died  away.  It  seemed  useless  to  wait  any 
longer.  She  crossed  the  hall  again  to  go  to  the  room 
where  Miss  Digby  usually  sat,  and  as  she  passed  along  she 
heard  a  man,  whom  she  knew  afterward  to  have  been  a 
detective,  say, — 

"  He  must  be  taken  to  London ;  I  have  my  orders. 
If  he  continues  to  resist,  he  must  be  strapped  down.  Go 
he  must  and  shall !  " 

Then  one  of  the  men-servants  had  been  discovered 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  !  2  j 

doing  something  wrong  !  She  hoped  it  was  not  the  pale- 
faced  waiter  who  had  an  invalid  wife,  or  the  cheerful 
obliging  one  who  never  seemed  to  tire.  The  cry  of  a  man's 
voice  reached  her  as  she  passed  along. 

"  I  hope  they  will  be  merciful  to  him,"  said  Ethel. 
"  He  has  been  stealing,  I  suppose.  Nothing  can  be  more 
contemptible  than  a  thief." 

She  opened  the  door  of  the  room  where  Miss  Digby 
generally  spent  the  morning  with  Lady  Stafton.  Both 
were  there — Lady  Stafton  looking  unusually  excited,  Miss 
Digby  occupied  with  a  piece  of  fancy-work  ;  and  Ethel 
could  not  help  seeing  that  the  hands  of  the  latter  trembled. 
Helen  looked  up  from  her  work  at  the  beautiful  flushed 
face  of  the  girl. 

"  Ethel,77  she  asked,  "  where  have  you  been  ?  I  do 
not  wish  to  seem  hard,  but  I  must  say,  my  dear,  that  I  do 
not  think  it  is  quite  right  of  you  to  absent  yourself  for  so 
many  hours  without  saying  anything  to  me.  You  must  re- 
member that  you  are  in  my  charge  ;  and  you  make  me 
anxious." 

Ethel  laughed  a  low,  sweet,  musical  laugh.  How 
soon,  how  very  soon  this  enemy  of  hers  would  be  crushed 
— how  soon  she  herself  would  triumph  !  It  was  the  last 
time  that  she  would  dare  to  ask  such  questions. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  Ethel  ?  "  Miss  Digby  re- 
peated. 

"  You  will  know  quite  soon  enough,"  replied  Ethel. 

Her  eyes  fell  on  the  ormolu  clock  ;  it  was  nearly  half- 
past  eleven.  Where  was  her  husband — strong,  handsome 
Laurie  Nugent  ?  He  was  to  take  her  hand  and  tell  Helen 
Digby  that  they  were  married.  It  was  fitting  time  and  op- 
portunity for  such  a  scene.  Why  did  he  not  come  ? " 

"  You  know,  my  dear  Ethel."  pursued  Helen,  "  that  I 
never  interfere  with  your  actions  needlessly.  I  know 
there  is  no  real  cause  for  anxiety  ;  this  place  is  so  quiet 


128  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

that  you  might  be  out  for  hours  together  and  not  see  any 
one  ;  but,  for  the  future,  if  you  intend  taking  a  long  ram- 
ble, will  you  please  mention  it  to  me,  that  I  may  feel  quite 
at  ease  ? " 

Ethel  laughed  again — there  was  so  little  need  for  such 
a  promise.  She,  with  her  husband,  would  soon  be  far 
away.  Helen  Digby's  reign  was  almost  over ;  a  few  min- 
utes more  and  the  triumph  would  come.  But  where  was 
her  husband  ? 

"  He  must  be  here  soon,"  she  thought  to  herself.  "  I 
am  glad  that  Lady  Stafton  is  present ;  she  will  see  my 
triumph." 

She  looked  at  Helen  Digby's  calm,  kind  face;  how 
soon  its  expression  would  be  changed — how  soon  she  would 
cease  to  have  any  place  among  them  ! 

Where  was  Laurie  ?  Ethel  was  growing  impatient ; 
this  triumph  of  hers  seemed  very  sweet  now  that  it  was  so 
near  at  hand.  What  gratification  to  be  able  to  look  at 
her  rival  and  say  :  "  I  was  left  in  your  charge — given  in- 
to your  care — and  you  have  failed  completely.  I  am  mar- 
ried, and  am  going  straight  to  see  my  father !  "  The 
desire  to  make  her  disclosure  increased.  When  she  had 
humbled  her  rival,  when  she  had  taken  from  her  her 
father's  love  and  all  chance  of  ever  reigning  at  Fountayne, 
she  would  be  friendly  with  her,  and  kind  enough.  Ethel 
laughed  again  as  she  thought  of  the  thunderbolt  that  was 
so  soon  to  fall  among  them. 

"  You  seem  greatly  amused,  Ethel,"  said  Helen  Digby. 
"  Have  you  seen  anything  that  has  pleased  you  ? " 

"  No  ;  but  I  expect  to  be  very  much  amused  Miss 
Digby,  and  I  am  laughing  in  anticipation." 

Then  she  became  silent,  and  the  ladies  went  on  talk- 
ing together.  She  heard  the  words,  "  dreadful  affair." 
"  sad  disgrace,"  repeated  over  and  over  again,  but  did  not 
feel  sufficient  interest  to  inquire  what  they  meant. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  j 2g 

Time  was  passing — it  was  now  half-past  eleven..  Where 
was  Laurie  ?  She  rose  impatiently  from  her  seat — she 
felt  warm  and  flushed.  Surely  the  room  or  the  morning 
must  be  very  close.  She  pushed  the  hair  back  from  her 
brow,  and  Helen  Digby,  catching  a  glimpse  of  her,  said, — 

"  Ethel,  you  look  so  strange— not  at  all  like  yourself." 

But  Ethel  moved  impatiently  away.  Where  was  he  ? 
Why  did  he  not  come  and  give  her  her  triumph  ?  It  was  not 
kind  of  him  to  keep  her  so  long.  She  walked  to  the  win- 
dow, and  stood  looking  out.  She  saw  the  lawn  and  the 
bright  flowers,  the  gleaming,  restless  sea,  the  dark,  shady 
woods.  Beyond  these  last  was  the  church  in  which  that 
morning  she  had  been  married.  Where  was  Laurie,  and 
why  did  he  not  come  ?  Lady  Stafton  looked  at  the  beau- 
tiful, restless  face. 

"  Have  you  heard  of  this  sad  affair,  Miss  Gordon  ?  "' 
she  inquired. 

But  Ethel  was  not  in  the  least  interested. 

"  I  have  not  heard  of  any  affair,  Lady  Stafton,"  she: 
replied  ;  "  but  I  thought,  as  I  came  through  the  house,, 
there  was  something  unusual  going  on." 

"  You  may  well  say  unusual,"  observed  Lady  Stafton,. 
who  delighted  in  a  little  gossip.  "  I  have  never  heard  of: 
such  a  thing  in  my  life.  If  it  get  into  the  papers  it  will 
ruin  the  Queen's  Hotel." 

"  It  is  sure  to  be  in  the  papers,"  said  Miss  Digby.. 
"  Everything  of  that  kind  is  published — and  so  it  ought  to. 
be." 

"  It  is  not  often  that  I  am  so  completely  deceived,"  re- 
marked Lady  Stafton.  "  It  will  be  a  warning  to  me  not 
to  put  implicit  faith  in  any  one  again." 

Still  Ethel  had  not  taken  the  least  interest  in  the  con- 
versation ;  all  that  she  was  thinking  of  was  Laurie,  and 
why  he  did  not  come. 

"  It  is  quite  as  well,  Miss  Gordon,"  pursued  Lady  Staf- 


I3o  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

ton,  "  that  you  were  not  here  this  morning.  There  has 
been  a  terrible  scene.  You  were  fortunate  to  miss  it.  It 
will  haunt  me  for  many  long  days.  Poor  Mr.  Nugent ! 
I  cannot  help  pitying  him,  after  all." 

Ethel's  listless  indifference  fled — strained,  painful  at- 
tention took  its  place. 

"  Mr.  Nugent,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice — "  what  of 
him  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  terrible  thing,"  put  in  Miss  Digby.  "  In  con- 
ceiving a  dislike  for  him,  I  little  knew  how  true  my  instinct 
was." 

Ethel  had  clasped  her  hands  so  tightly  that  the  tender 
skin  was  bruised,  so  keen  was  her  impatience,  so  terrible 
her  suspense. 

"  What  has  he  done  ? "  she  asked,  in  the  same  low 
voice. 

"  Really,  my  dear  Ethel,"  replied  Lady  Stafton,  "  the 
story  is  hardly  fit  for  a  young  lady  to  hear.  I  told  Miss 
Digby  that  I  considered  it  providential  that  you  were  out 
of  the  way  when  it  all  happened." 

Ethel  curbed  her  impatience  as  well  as  she  could ;  her 
limbs  trembled,  and  the  red  marks  on  the  white  hands 
deepened. 

"  I  think,"  she  said,  "  you  may  tell  me,  whatever  it  is. 
I  am  sure  to  hear  of  it — perhaps  I  had  better  hear  it  first 
from  you." 

Lady  Stafton  looked  pleased.  Ethel  had  tried  to  speak 
in  her  ordinary  voice,  but  she  had  failed ;  and  Helen 
Digby  wondered  at  the  strange  sound. 

"  It  seems,  my  dear,"  began  Lady  Stafton,  "  that  the 
gentleman  we  have  known  as  Mr.  Nugent  is  no  Nugent 
after  all.  His  name  is  Laurie  Carrington.  He  was  mana- 
ger of  a  bank  in  London.  What  was  the  bank  called, 
Helen  ? " 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  x  3  x 

In  that  profound  silence  Miss  Digby's  voice  sounded 
clear  and  distinct. 

"  The  Anglo-Scottish  Bank,"  she  replied,  briefly. 

"  Yes,  that  was  it.  He  was  a  young  man  of  good 
family,  and  of  great  ability.  He  was  chosen  as  manager 
of  this  bank.  It  was  perhaps  not  quite  a  safe  position  for 
so  young  a  man — but  then  they  trusted  him  implicitly.'' 

Lady  Stafton  paused  for  a  few  minutes  ;  the  voice  was 
hardly  human  in  which  Ethel  said,  hoarsely, — 

"  You  have  not  told  me  what  he  has  done." 

"  I  was  coming  to  that,  my  dear,"  explained  Lady  Staf- 
ton, complacently.  "  Mr.  Carrington — to  give  him  his 
proper  name, — seems,  from  what  I  hear,  to  have  got  among 
a  l  f ast'  set,  and  to  have  spent 'a  great  deal  of  money  in 
gambling.  The  end  of  it  was,  he  appropriated  the  bank 
funds — he  forged  a  check  for  five  thousand  pounds,  and 
absconded  with  the  money." 

Ethel  spoke  no  more,  but  from  her  white  lips  came  a 
gasping  sigh. 

"  He  went  away  with  the  money,  and  every  one  thought 
he  would  try  to  leave  the  country.  The  case  was  put  in- 
to the  hands  of  the  detectives,  and  all  the  seaports  were 
carefully  watched.  He  was  aware  of  that,  and,  knowing 
this  quiet  place,  decided  upon  coming  here,  intending  to 
get  across  to  France  if  he  could.  While  they  have  been 
searching  for  him  in  all  the  great  towns — London,  Liver- 
pool, Bristol,  Hull — he  has  been  quietly  hiding  here." 

Another  great  gasping  sigh ;  but  the  white  lips  never 
opened  to  speak. 

"  I  remember  seeing  in  Tuesday's  Times  that  the  police 
were  on  the  track  of  the  forger,  Laurie  Carrington,  and 
hoped  soon  to  effect  his  capture.  Little  did  I  suspect  who 
Laurie  Carrington  was.  However,  it  appears  the  paragraph 
was  quite  correct.  The  detectives  came  early  this  morn- 
ing, and  there  was  a  terrible  scene." 


132 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


"  I  cannot  imagine,"  interrupted  Helen  Digby,  "  why 
he  stayed  here  so  long.  He  might  have  crossed  the  Chan- 
nel and  have  made  his  escape  days  ago  when  he  knew  his 
danger.  I  cannot  think  why  he  remained  here." 

Ethel  knew.  Love  for  her,  the  charm  of  her  fatal 
beauty,  the  desire  of  winning  her  for  his  wife — it  was  for 
this  he  had  stayed,  and  had  placed  himself  in  such  deadly 
peril. 

"  That  also  puzzles  me,"  said  Lady  Stafton — "  indeed, 
I  overheard  one  of  the  detectives  ask  him  about  it,  and 
his  despairing  look  I  shall  never  forget.  It  really  was  a 
terrible  scene,  Ethel." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  all  about  it  ?  "  she  asked,  in  the 
same  unearthly  voice  ;  and  Lady  Stafton,  nothing  loath, 
continued, — 

"  The  detectives  came  early  this  morning  ;  they  asked 
for  Mr.  Carrington,  and  were  told  that  no  such  gentleman 
was  staying  at  the  hotel.  Mr.  Nugent  came  in  at  that 
very  moment,  and  they  seized  him.  *  This  is  our  man/ 
they  said  ;  and,  Ethel,  I  shall  never  forget  the  despair  that 
came  over  his  face.  At  first  he  tried  bravado,  and  declared 
it  was  all  a  mistake  :  but  that  failed  him  ;  and  then,  when 
he  heard  the  charge  upon  which  he  was  apprehended,  and 
saw  the  handcuffs,  and  that  there  was  no  chance  of  escape, 
he  burst  into  tears.  Oh,  Ethel,  if  you  had  seen  him  !  He 
fell  back,  like  one  half  fainting  ;  and  then  it  was  discovered 
that  he  was  greatly  disguised.  His  false  mustaches  fell 
off,  and  a  wig  of  chestnut  curls — he  is  dark,  not  fair — I  al- 
ways thought  it  strange  that  dark  eyes  and  chestnut  hair 
should  go  together.  He  looked  very  handsome  when  the 
false  hair  was  taken  away.  We  all  came  away,  for  having 
received  him  as  an  equal,  it  was  very  hard  to  witness  his 
humiliation.  He  said  something  to  me  as  I  left  the  hall, 
but  I  did  not  hear  him  distinctly.  The  manager  is  much 
distressed  j  he  says  it  will  ruin  the  place." 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  !33 

"  It  was  a  strange  idea  for  a  forger  to  hide  himself 
here,"  said  the  quiet  voice  of  Helen  Digby.  "  I  can 
understand  his  coming,  but  I  cannot  think  why  he  re- 
mained." 

"  Has  he  gone  away  ?  "  asked  Ethel.  The  pallor  on 
her  face  and  the  wild  despair  in  her  eyes  increased ;  but 
her  head  was  averted — neither  of  the  ladies  noticed  her. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  answered  Lady  Staf ton  ;  "  one  of  the 
servants  told  me  some  little  time  since  that  Mr.  Carrington 
was  still  in  the  hall,  handcuffed  and  bound.  I  did  not 
like  to  ask  any  questions." 

Just  at  that  moment  one  of  the  lady  visitors  entered 
the  room. 

"  Mr.  Carrington  is  gone,"  she  said.  "  I  never  ex- 
pected to  witness  such  a  scene.  What  do  you  think  he 
did,  Lady  Stafton  ?  I  am  quite  sure  the  man  is  mad. 
Just  before  he  was  leaving  the  hall  he  asked  permission  to 
have  his  hands  loosed  for  a  few  moments.  The  request 
was  granted,  and  he  drew  from  his  breast-pocket  a  bunch 
of  faded  passion-flowers,  and  flung  them  on  the  ground. 
*  Take  those  to  my  wife,'  he  said  ;  and  then  another  idea 
seemed  to  strike  him — he  raised  them  and  kissed  them, 
and  I  saw  tears  in  his  eyes." 

"  Faded  passion-flowers ! "  exclaimed  Lady  Stafton. 
u  Then  the  man  has  something  of  poetry  in  him,  after  all  1  " 


CHAPTER  XX. 

ETHEL  listened  attentively  to  the  conversation  that  was 
being  carried  on  between  Lady  Stafton  and  the  newly 
entered  lady  visitor.  Presently  there  was  a  pause  for 
some  minutes,  and  then  Helen  Digby  said, — 


I34  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  Mr.  Nugent  requested  the  passion-flowers  to  be  taken 
to  his  wife.  I  did  not  know  that  he  was  married — much 
less  that  he  had  a  wife  here." 

"  He  has  no  wife,"  asserted  the  lady  visitor.  "  It  was 
all  nonsense  ;  he  said  it  only  for  a  sensation.  Yet  the 
man  looked  so  heart-broken — so  despairing — one  might 
have  thought  he  was  leaving  some  fair,  beloved  young 
bride.  I  shall  never  forget  his  face." 

"  I  should  say  myself,"  observed  Lady  Stafton,  com- 
placently, "  that  a  man  like  Mr.  Nugent  would  find  great 
difficulty  in  contracting  a  suitable  marriage.  He  has  all 
the  self-possession  and  well-bred  manner,  the  cultivated 
taste  and  refinement  of  a  gentleman  of  our  class.  Yet,  in 
our  class  he  could  hardly  find  a  wife.  Who  would  marry 
him  ?  Of  course,  marriage  is  out  of  the  question  now  ; 
justice  has  too  strong  a  hold  of  him.  So  our  handsome 
friend  was  a  thief  and  a  forger  after  all !  Well,  it  is  a 
lesson  on  the  folly  of  forming  a  promiscuous  acquaintance." 

"  I  have  often  wondered,"  said  the  lady-visitor,  "  how 
this  Mr.  Nugent  came  to  know  you,  Lady  Stafton." 

"  He  introduced  himself  to  me  under  false  pretenses  ; 
he  told  me  he  was  an  intimate  friend  of  Lady  Delamaine's. 
I  ought  to  have  been  more  on  my  guard ;  but  he  seemed 
so  pleasant  and  well-bred.  How  was  I  to  imagine,  meet- 
ing him  here,  that  he  was  a  criminal  flying  from  justice  ? 
I  cannot  conceive  what  he  meant  by  speaking  of  his  wife 
— there  was  ho  lady  staying  here  with  him." 

"  No,  it  was  all  nonsense,"  affirmed  the  lady-visitor. 
"Every  one  is  wondering,  though,  why,  when  he  \VL^  Li 
such  deadly  danger,  he  should  have  remained  here  so  long. 
My  husband  talks  of  going  away  at  once.  It  has  been  a 
shock  to  us,  for  we  really  liked  the  young  man.  He  was 
pleasant,  handsome,  and  well-bred,  with  a  certain  natural 
elegance  of  his  own  which  made  conversation  with  him  very 
agreeable  ;  "  and  after  a  few  more  words  the  lady  departed 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  I^ 

to  discuss  with  some  one  else  "  the  terrible  story  of  this 
Mr.  Nugent.'' 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  Lady  Stafton,  as  the  door  closed, 
"  that  we  have  been  very  imprudent,  Helen.  I  wish  we  had 
never  allowed  Mr.  Nugent,  or  Carrington,  to  speak  to  us." 

"There  has  been  no  harm  done,  fortunately,"  returned 
Miss  Digby.  "  I  am  thankful  matters  are  no  worse.  The 
incident  has  made  me  very  miserable.  I  cannot  bear  to 
think  of  that  handsome,  pleasant,  clever  Mr.  Nugent  in  a 
felon's  cell." 

Ethel  listened  to  every  word.  Fortunately  no  one 
Bpoke  to  her.  For  all  power  of  speech  had  gone  from 
her.  A  great  blinding  mist  came  before  her  eyes,  shutting 
out  the  shining  sea,  the  green  lawn,  the  blooming  flowers 
• — a  blood-red  mist ;  a  roar  as  of  rushing  waters  filled  her » 
ears,  her  face  grew  white  and  cold  as  the  face  of  the  dead. 
She  would  have  fallen  but  for  the  desperate  grasp  with 
which  she  clung  to  the  woodwork  of  the  window. 

The  anguish  of  each  moment  seemed  endless  ;  the 
light,  careless  voices  discussed  every  detail  of  the  event, 
ioid  told  how  Laurie  Nugent,  the  man  she  had  married, 
was  a  forger  and  a  thief. 

How  did  she  live  through  it  ?  In  after  years  her  won- 
der was  that  the  shock  did  not  kill  her.  It  was  her  hus- 
band they  had  carried  away  to  prison  ;  the  gleam  of  the 
wedding-ring  on  her  hand  caught  her  attention  and  turned 
her  faint  with  a  cold,  terrible  dread.  There  was  the  purple 
bruise  made  by  the  gravestone  only  three  hours  ago.  Oh, 
fatal  hour — fatal  omen  !  This  was  the  revenge  for  which 
she  had  parted  with  her  liberty,  her  freedom — for  which 
she  had  married  in  secret  to  repent  at  leisure.  This  was 
her  revenge — revenge  which  had  recoiled  most  terribly  on 
herself.  This  sweet,  pitying  woman  was  the  one  she  had 
intended  to  crush  under  her  feet,  and  the  man  who  was  to< 
have  helped  her  triumph  was  a  forger  and  a  thief. 


136  REPEATED  A  T  LEISURE. 

Another  great  gasping  sigh  ;  her  strength  seemed  to  be 
leaving  her — her  heart  beat  painfully — her  limbs  trembled. 
Did  ever  summer  sun  shine  on  such  a  woeful,  despairing 
face  ? 

"  Ethel,"  said  Miss  Digby,  "  you  must  be  tired  after 
your  long  walk.  The  bell  will  ring  directly  for  luncheon, 
and  you  will  want  to  arrange  your  dress." 

She  dared  not  turn  round  lest  that  ghastly  face  of  hers 
should  be  exposed  to  view. 

"  You  had  better  go  to  your  own  room,  my  dear,"  sug- 
gested Helen.  "I  expect  to  hear  the  bell  ring  every 
minute." 

Slowly — for  the  strange  trembling  had  not  left  her  limbs 
— Ethel  walked  away,  and  neither  of  the  ladies  noticed 
that  she  groped  with  her  hands  before  her,  as  one  suddenly 
struck  blind. 

She  had  just  strength  to  reach  her  own  room.  She 
caught  one  glimpse  of  her  face  in  the  mirror,  where  so  short 
a  time  since  she  had  seen  a  vision  of  fair,  youthful,  blush- 
ing loveliness.  She  saw  a  white  face  there  now,  with  pale, 
trembling  lips  and  a  look  of  woeful  fear  in  the  violet  eyes. 
It  was  as  though  some  blight  had  fallen  over  the  proud 
young  beauty  and  laid  it  low.  She  stood  for  a  few  minutes 
looking  at  that  ghastly  face,  and  before  her,  in  letters  of  fire, 
she  saw  the  words  "  Forger  and  thief."  Look  where  she 
would,  turn  where  she  would,  the  fiery  letters  were  there, 
burning  her  eyes,  burning  her  brain. 

"  Forger  and  thief  !  "  Oh,  cruel  fate  ! — cruel  cheat ! — 
cruel  destiny  !  She  took  the  wedding-ring  from  her  finger 
and  trampled  it,  with  a  passionate  cry  of  anger  and  scorn, 
under  her  foot..  She,  Ethel  Gordon — one  of  the  grand  old 
Gordons  of  Fountayne — married  to  a  forger  and  thief !  She, 
one  of  a  dauntless  race  whose  warriors  had  died  on  the 
battle-field,  and  whose  women  had  held  their  own  in  times 
of  deadliest  danger  and  peril — a  grand  old  debonnair  race 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  x 3  7 

who  had  laughed  at  all  things  low  and  mean — she  the  wife 
of  a  thief,  of  a  man  who  had  passed  under  a  false  name? 
who  had  worn  a  disguise,  who  had  fled  from  justice  when 
pursuit  was  hot  after  him,  who  had  not  scrupled  to  sacri- 
fice her  young  life,  her  young  beauty,  her  future,  to  his  sel- 
fish love  ?  She,  Ethel — Gordon  no  longer — was  the  wife 
of  a  criminal. 

Low  passionate  cries  came  from  her  lips — cries  of  hope- 
less, impatient  despair.  She  tried  in  vain  to  stop  them, 
she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands ;  but  if  she  had  not  so 
cried  she  must  have  died. 

As  she  sat  there  she  almost  hated  the  beauty  of  the 
summer  morning,  the  song  of  the  birds,  the  fragrance  of  the 
sweet  flowers.  As  in  a  dream,  the  pictured  faces  of  the 
saints  on  the  grand  eastern  window  of  St.  Ann's  Church 
came  before  her ;  she  called  to  mind  the  holy  calm  and 
silence  reigning  within  the  sacred  edifice ;  the  solemn 
vows  she  had  only  that  morning  taken  sounded  again  in 
her  ears.  The  remembrance  of  it  all  surged  through 
her  heart  and  soul  like  the  waves  of  an  angry  sea ;  her 
slender  figure  swayed  like  the  leaf  in  the  wind ;  and 
without  word  or  cry,  she  fell,  white  and  helpless,  to  the 
ground.  The  sunbeams  played  over  her — through  the  open 
windows  came  the  sweet  breath  of  the  climbing  roses,  but 
Ethel  Gordon  was  insensible  to  both. 

The  bell  rang  for  luncheon,  and  no  Ethel  came.  Miss 
Digby  looked  anxiously  for  her. 

"  I  am  afraid  the  child  has  over-exerted  herself,"  she 
said  to  Lady  Stafton. 

Her  ladyship  laughed. 

"  I  am  afraid,  my  dear,  that  Miss  Gordon  has  a  little 
attack  of  the  Gordon  temper.  She  left  us  without  a  word. 
You  had  better  let  her  take  her  own  way." 

But  Helen  was  not  happy.  She  loved  her  beautiful, 
wayward^  wilful  charge  i  she  bore  patiently  with  he*  faults. 


I38  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

hoping  for  the  time  when  Ethel  would  love  her  in  return, 
She  could  not  bear  that  the  girl  should  go  without  her 
luncheon  because,  perhaps,  she  was  tired  with  her  long 
ramble. 

"  I  found  fault  with  her,"  she  said — "  I  must  not  forget 
that ;  and  she  is  not  accustomed  to  it — my  poor  Ethel ! " 

So,  despite  Lady  Stafton's  laughter,  she  selected  a 
bunch  of  bloomy,  purple  grapes,  a  ripe  peach,  and  a  glass 
of  Madeira,  and  took  them  herself  to  Ethel's  room,  together 
with  a  book  she  thought  would  amuse  her.  She  rapped, 
but  no  answer  came ;  and  then  Helen  opened  the  door. 
No  beautiful  face  turned  proudly  to  see  what  she  wanted. 
Ethel  Gordon  lay  white,  cold,  and  silent  on  the  floor. 

For  one  minute  Helen  thought  she  was  dead. 

"  Ethel,  my  darling,"  she  cried  kneeling  by  her  side— 
"  Ethel,  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

There  came  no  answer  from  the  white  lips,  and  Helen, 
with  kind,  caressing  touch,  parted  the  long  rich,  brown  hair 
from  the  white  brow,  and  then  raised  the  girl  in  her  arms 
and  laid  her  on  the  bed. 

"  It  is  but  a  fainting  fit,"  she  thought,  "  brought  on 
probably  by  the  heat  and  the  long  ramble  she  has  taken 
in  the  woods." 

She  bathed  the  cold  face  with  cold  water,  and  when 
at  last  Ethel  opened  her  eyes,  it  was  to  find  her  head  pil- 
lowed on  the  kindly  breast  of  the  woman  she  had  intended 
to  crush  beneath  her  feet — to  find  tender  words,  gentle 
caresses,  devoted  care  from  the  woman  she  had  hated 
with  such  fatal  hate. 

"  My  darling  Ethel,"  said  Helen  Digby,  "  I  am  so 
pleased  and  thankful  to  find  you  better.  I  was  sorely 
frightened  when  I  found  you  lying  on  the  floor.  I  hope 
you  have  not  been  ill  long.  Try  to  drink  this  wine." 

She  bent  down,  and  with  her  kind,  pitying  lips  she 
kissed  the  beautiful,  colorless  face. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  !  39 

"  My  darling  child,"  she  resumed,  "  I  did  not  know 
how  dearly  I  loved  you  until  I  saw  you  lying  helpless." 

Suddenly  Ethel — proud  Ethel,  who  had  never  sought  a 
caress — flung  her  arms  round  Helen's  neck,  buried  her 
face  on  Helen's  breast,  and  clung  to  her  with  a  passionate 
cry. 

"  O,  Helen,  Helen  !  take  me  home  !  Take  me  home, 
and  let  me  die  ! " 

Helen  tried  to  calm  her,  feeling  all  the  time  alarmed 
at  her  state.  Still  she  thought  it  was  nothing  more  than 
the  effects  of  a  long  walk  in  the  heat  of  the  sun. 

"You  must  be  more  careful,  my  dear  child,"  she  said; 
"  those  long  rambles  are  too  much  for  you." 

But  Ethel  only  clung  the  more  closely  to  her,  crying 
again,— 

"  Take  me  home,  Helen,  and  let  me  die  ! " 


_  CHAPTER  XXL 

THE  story  of  Mr.  Nugent  was  a  nine  days'  wonder. 
Some  people  left  the  Queen's  Hotel  in  consequence  of  it. 
They  were  but  few  in  number  and  those  who  remained 
found  a  never-ending  subject  of  conversation.  The  man- 
ager in  time  recovered  from  his  anxiety.  Helen  Digby 
had  written  a  full  account  of  the  whole  matter  to  Sir  Leon- 
ard, asking  his  advice  whether,  under  the  circumstances, 
he  would  wish  Ethel  and  herself  to  remain  at  St.  Ina's. 

In  answer  Sir  Leonard  wrote  to  say  that  he  could  not 
see  why  the  Nugent  incident  should  disturb  them,  and  that, 
as  Ethel  did  not  seem  to  be  quite  well,  it  would  be  better 
for  them  to  remain,  as  they  had  originally  intended.  He 
was  sorry  to  hear  that  Ethel  was  not  well.  In  all  proba* 


140 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


bility  the  warm  weather  had  been  prejudicial  to  her  ;  there- 
fore they  could  not  do  better  than  remain  by  the  sea. 
Miss  Digby  was  pleased  with  the  decision — she  had  rather 
dreaded  going  to  Fountayne. 

On  the  morning  that  she  received  the  letter  she  has- 
tened with  it  to  Ethel's  room.  The  girl  was  dressed  and 
seated  by  the  window,  her  eyes  fixed  dreamily  on  the 
trees ;  she  turned  her  beautiful,  colorless  face  to  Helen, 
and  a  faint  smile  came  to  her  white  lips. 

"  I  have  a  letter  from  Sir  Leonard,"  announced  Helen, 
gently. 

The  time  had  been  when  she  would  have  risen  with  a 
glad  heart  and  a  bright  face  to  take  the  letter;  now  she 
murmured  a  few  listless  words  and  looked  out  again  over 
the  trees. 

"  I  will  read  it  to  you,"  said  Helen  ;  and  standing  by 
the  girl's  side,  she  read  the  letter. 

Ethel  made  no  comment.  Miss  Digby  could  not  even 
tell  whether  she  had  taken  note  of  the  words. 

"  If  you  are  willing,  Ethel,"  she  observed,  gently,  "  I 
shall  consider  that  as  settled.  We  are  to  remain  here." 

"  I  am  willing,"  returned  Ethel ;  and  Helen  noted  with 
pain  the  listless  manner,  the  listless  voice. 

"  I  am  so  thankful,  Ethel,"  said  Miss  Digby,  "  that  you 
have  escaped  a  long  illness.  Last  week  when  I  found  you 
lying  here  I  was  alarmed.  I  think  now  your  ailment  must 
have  been  a  kind  of  sunstroke.  You  were  certainly  quite 
delirious  for  a  time." 

A  faint  flush  rose  to  her  face. 

"  Delirious  was  I,  Helen  ?     What  did  I  talk  about  ?  " 

"  Going  home  to  die.  You  made  me  nervous,  I  assure 
you.  You  are  better  now — are  you  not  Ethel  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  allowed  the  sad  young  voice,  "  I  am  better, 
Helen.  I  am  quite  willing  to  stay  in  my  room  for  a  few 
days,  if  you  think  it  better  for  me ;  but  will  you  always 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  ! 4! 

bring  or  send  me  the  London  newspapers  as  soon  as  they 
come — as  early  as  you  can  ?  I  want  to  see  them." 

Miss  Digby  smiled. 

"  I  thought  you  did  not  care  for  newspapers.  You 
shall  have  them  as  soon  as  they  come." 

She  laid  her  hand  on  the  girl's  white  brow,  and  Ethel, 
taking  it  in  her  own,  kissed  it. 

"  You  are  so  kind,5'  she  said,  humbly — "  so  kind  and 
good." 

"  It  is  easy  to  be  kind  where  we  love  very  dearly,"  re- 
sponded Miss  Digby  ;  but,  as  she  left  the  room,  she  half 
wished  that  Ethel  had  some  of  the  old  petulant,  wilful 
manner,  and  half  defiant  pride. 

"  I  do  not  like  to  see  her  so  changed,"  she  said  to  her- 
self ;  "  nor  can  I  understand  it." 

No  fever,  with  its  disquieting  dreams,  had  come  to 
Ethel.  For  one  whole  day  after  that  terrible  discovery 
she  had  lain  with  her  face  turned  from  the  sunshine,  long- 
ing for  death  to  free  her  from  despair  ;  but  she  was  young 
and  strong,  death  came  not,  and  she  rose,  when  the  next 
morning  dawned,  the  wreck  of  her  bright,  beautiful  self. 
It  was  as  though  every  hope,  every  energy  was  paralyzed. 
Despair  conquered  her.  Look  which  way  she  would,  there 
was  no  release  from  her  fate,  no  help,  no  aid  ;  the  chains 
she  had  so  willingly  put  on  must  weigh  her  down  until  she 
died.  She  had,  perhaps,  many  years  of  a  long,  lingering, 
joyless,  dreary  existence  before  her,  and  she  turned  heart- 
sick from  the  contemplation  of  it.  Seasons  would  change, 
the  sun  rise  and  set,  the  tide  ebb  and  flow,  but  she  would 
never  know  hope  or  brightness  again. 

Her  thoughts  were  as  a  weight  of  lead  ;  they  dragged 
her  down  to  the  earth  and  kept  her  there.  Her  sorrow 
was  not  like  one  for  which  time  has  a  cure  ;  time  could  do 
nothing  for  her  but  add  to  the  greatness  of  her  sorrow  by 
showing  her  the  greatness  of  her  folly.  She  was  like  one 


1 42  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

stunned  and  paralyzed  by  some  great  blow.  Illness  that 
brought  with  it  pain  would  almost  have  been  welcome  to 
her  ;  anything  would  have  seemed  better  than  this  dull 
paralysis  that  had  stricken  every  nerve. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  London  papers  were  brought  to  Ethel,  and  she 
searched  them  anxiously  for  news  of  her  husband.  She 
found  it  at  last.  His  trial  was  to  take  place  on  the  third 
of  August,  and  no  hope  was  given  that  he  would  be 
leniently  dealt  with.  Until  the  third  of  August  her  life 
passed  like  a  dream — she  neither  smiled  nor  laughed,  and 
seldom  spoke  ;  she  sat  like  one  in  a  trance — in  a  listless 
dream. 

On  the  day  of  the  third  she  rose  with  the  dawn  ;  she 
knelt  by  the  side  of  her  bed,  with  clasped  hands  and  bowed 
head,  full  of  deep,  unutterable  misery. 

She  had  driven  herself  almost  crazy  with  fear,  wonder- 
ing what  she  should  do  if  her  husband  were  set  free  and 
came  to  claim  her — if  the  story  of  her  disgraceful  marriage 
were  ever  made  known. 

"  I  should  kill  myself,"  she  said,  with  clinched  hands. 
"  I  could  not  face  the  exposure  and  the  shame." 

The  third  of  August  was  a  bright,  warm,  beautiful  day, 
but  Ethel  sat  in  her  own  room,  silent,  melancholy,  listless, 
wondering  what  Laurie  was  doing — what  was  happening. 
Her  heart  turned  faint  and  cold  as  she  pictured  him  in  the 
felon's  dock,  his  handsome  face  white  with  shame,  his  head 
bent — forger,  thief,  waiting  to  receive  his  sentence. 

She  did  not  love  him— she  never  had  loved  him — but 
all  that  evening  she  sat  at  her  window  watching  the  sun 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  !  43 

set,  and  the  moon  rise — watching  the  stars  while  others 
slept,  until  the  crimson  dawn  that  looked  so  fair  in  the 
eastern  sky  broke  once  again  over  the  earth. 

He  knew  his  fate  by  then  ;  sentence  had  been  pro- 
nounced upon  him  ;  and  soon  she  should  know  it.  Was 
he  watching  the  rise  of  the  early  dawn  through  the  prison 
bars  ?  Was  he  thinking  of  her,  this  forger  and  thief,  who 
had  loved  her  so  passionately  and  so  well  ? 

What  would  he  do  ?  Would  he  write  to  her  and  claim 
her,  or  mercifully  let  her  rest  in  peace  ? 

Ethel  had  not  moved  or  stirred  all  night  ;  but,  when 
Helen  entered  her  room,  she  believed  that  her  charge  had 
just  risen.  When  the  girl  turned  round  to  her  with  a 
white,  wan  face,  and  great  hollow  circles  round  her  eyes, 
Miss  Digby  uttered  a  little,  startled  cry. 

"  You  are  not  so  well  to-day,  Ethel,  I  am  sure,"  she 
cried  ;  "  you  have  not  slept  well.  I  have  brought  you  the 
2?tnes." 

A  blush  that  seemed  to  burn  the  beautiful  face  rose 
over  it — Helen  could  not  understand  why.  Ethel  turned 
eagerly  to  her,  and  held  out  her  hand  for  the  newspaper. 

"  Shall  I  stay  with  you  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I  shall  be 
very  well  pleased  to  spend  the  morning  in  your  room." 

"  No,  no,  thank  you,  Helen,"  she  cried,  eagerly  ;  "  I 
want  to  be  alone. " 

Helen  lingered  to  perform  two  or  three  kindly  offices 
for  her,  and  the  girls'  impatience  reached  fever  heat. 
Would  she  never  go  ?  Would  she  never  be  able  to  open 
that  paper  and  know  her  fate  ?  At  last,  with  kindly  words 
and  an  anxious  look,  Helen  Digby  went  away. 

Ethel  was  alone  then,  and  the  burning,  trembling  hands 
hastened  to  open  the  paper.  There  it  was,  in  large  letters 
— "The  trial  of  Laurie  Carrington  for  theft  and  forgery." 
The  report  of  the  trial  occupied  many  columns  ;  she  did 
not  eve f look  a  single  word. 


I44  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

It  was  surely  the  saddest,  simplest  story  ever  told  of 
any  man's  downfall — so  sad  and  so  simple  that,  as  she 
read  it,  tears  filled  her  eyes,  and  fell  on  the  paper — tears 
of  pity  for  the  thief  and  forger  who  had  tempted  her. 

He  came  of  a  good  family — the  Carringtons  of  Oxford 
— and  he  was  the  only  son  of  his  mother — a  widow.  His 
father  had  once  been  a  rich  man,  and  he  himself  had  re- 
ceived an  excellent  education  ;  he  had  distinguished  him- 
self at  college,  and  had  bidden  fair  to  become  a  distin- 
guished scholar.  But  his  father  was  ruined  by  the  failure 
of  some  mines  in  which  he  had  risked  the  whole  of  his  for- 
tune, and  Laurie  was  taken  from  college  to  be  placed  in 
the  Anglo-Scottish  Bank. 

There  he  attracted  notice  by  industry,  perseverance, 
and  honesty.  By  degrees  he  reached  the  highest  post  in 
the  bank  ;  and  although  young,  his  talents  were  so  great 
that  he  was  made  manager  when  the  gentleman  who  had 
occupied  that  position  died.  There  was  before  him  a 
glorious  future,  and  nothing  marred  it  but  his  own  folly  • 
he  allowed  himself  to  be  tempted  by  the  love  of  gambling. 
He  lost,  won,  and  lost  again,  principally  on  the  race-course  ; 
he  gave  himself  up  to  all  kinds  of  folly — took  a  large  house, 
and  lived  in  grand  style — gave  magnificent  parties — mean- 
while appropriating  money  that  was  not  his  own,  intending 
at  some  futute  time  to  refund  it.  Then,  in  order  to  hide 
his  defalcations,  he  purposely  falsified  the  accounts  ;  and, 
when  he  found  it  impossible  to  hide  his  crime,  he  crowned 
it  by  forging  a  check  for  five  thousand  pounds,  and  run- 
ning away  with  the  money.  The  directors  offered  a  large 
reward  for  his  capture  ;  but  for  some  time  all  hope  of  ef- 
fecting it  seemed  vain.  At  last  he  was  found  at  the  Queen's 
Hotel,  St.  Ina's  Bay,  where  he  had  been  hiding  in  disguise 
ever  since  he  had  committed  the  crime  ;  and  those  in 
court  wondered,  as  they  heard  this,  why  he  had  lingered  in 
such  deadly  peril.  No  one  knew  and  no  one  guessed  the 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  ! 45 

story  of  his  passionate  love  for  beautiful,  proud  Ethel 
Gordon. 

The  trial  would  have  been  longer  but  that  the  prisoner 
made  no  defense.  He  pleaded  guilty  and  asked  for  mercy 
— he  was  young,  and  had  been  sorely  tempted.  The  di- 
rectors were  leniently  inclined.  Mr.  Carrington  had  re- 
funded the  greater  part  of  the  money,  and  they  were  perse- 
cuting in  the  interests  of  justice  only.  But  the  judge  was 
very  severe  with  the  prisoner.  Several  pleas  for  mercy  his 
lordship  said  had  been  placed  before  him,  but  he  did  not 
think  any  of  them  ought  to  bias  his  decision.  Still,  he 
considered  justice  would  be  met  if  he  sentenced  the  pris- 
oner to  ten  years'  penal  servitude. 

It  was  a  perfectly  just  sentence  ;  but  the  report  went 
on  to  tell  of  its  effect  upon  the  prisoner.  His  face  grew 
ghastly  white,  and  he  trembled  violently. 

"  Ten  years  !  "  he  repeated.  "  Oh,  my  lord,  have 
mercy  on  me  !  " 

"  You  have  had  no  mercy  on  yourself,"  the  judge  replied. 
"  I  can  only  hope  that  your  punishment  may  be  a  warning 
to  other  young  men  who  abuse  the  trust  placed  in  them  by 
their  employers." 

The  report  concluded  with  these  words  :  "  The  pris- 
oner, who  seemed  to  feel  his  position  acutely,  was  then  re- 
moved from  the  dock." 

Ethel  read  with  burning  eyes  and  quivering  lips  ;  she 
did  not  miss  a  single  word  ;  and  when  she  had  reached 
the  conclusion  the  paper  fell  from  her  hands  to  the  ground. 

Ten  years  of  penal  servitude — ten  years  must  elapse 
before  he  could  claim  her.  Before  he  could  see  her  again 
much  might  happen  ;  she  might  even  die.  Surely  the 
misery  of  her  secret  would  kill  her  before  then  ?  And  that 
was  the  story  of  the  man  she  had  married — the  forger 
and  thief  !  A  flush  of  hot  indignation  burned  in  her  face. 
Surely,  of  all  the  crimes  he  had  committed,  the  very  worst 


1 46  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

was  to  have  betrayed,  deceived,  and  married  her — to  have 
blighted  her  young  life  and  sacrificed  her  to  his  own  most 
selfish  love. 

As  she  sat  there  anger,  pride,  and  despair  doing  fierce 
battle  in  her  heart,  Helen  entered. 

c<  Have  you  done  with  the  Times,  Ethel  ?  there  is  quite 
a  demand  for  the  London  papers  this  morning.  It  appears 
that  Mr.  Nugent's  trial  is  in  it.  Did  you  notice  it  ?  Have 
you  read  it  ?  " 

"  I  have  read  it,"  was  the  brief  reply. 

"  I  want  to  read  it  to  Lady  Stafton.  She  takes  great 
interest  in  it.  I  hope  the  sentence  is  not  a  heavy  one," 

"  Ten  years'  penal  servitude  !  "  said  Ethel. 

And  Helen  was  puzzled  by  the  strange  sound  of  her 
wice.  She  took  up  the  newspaper,  and  went  away. 

Not  once  that  day  did  Ethel  quit  her  room.  She  could 
•not  have  borne  the  careless  discussions,  the  weary  repeti- 
tion of  each  detail,  the  pity,  the  blame,  the  wonder. 

"  I  should  think,"  she  said  once  to  herself,  "  that  he 
•must  hate  me.  If  he  had  not  stopped  here  for  my  sake. 
lie  would  not  have  been  in  prison  now." 

Helen  Digby  read  the  report  of  the  trial  to  her  friend. 
They  both  agreed  that  it  was  a  just  sentence. 

"  I  shall  always  wonder  what  he  meant  by  throwing  down 
those  faded  flowers  for  his  wife,"  said  Lady  Stafton,  who 
•enjoyed  a  little  romance.  "  He  cannot  surely  have  had  a 
wife  hidden  here." 

"  No,"  observed  Helen  ;  "  you  see  in  the  report  of  the 
trial  he  is  spoken  of  as  a  single  man.  It  was  merely  a  bit 
of  sensationalism — nothing  more.  I  think  we  have  dis- 
cussed him  long  enough.  I  am  not  happy  about  Ethel  ; 
I  cannot  imagine  what  has  happened  to  her." 

"  Is  she  ill  again  ?"  asked  Lady  Stafton. 

"  She  has  not  been  well  for  some  time.  This  morning, 
when  I  went  into  her  room,  I  was  quite  startled  ;  her  face 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  j ^ 

was  colorless,  and  there  were  great  hollow  circles  round 
her  eyes.  I  assure  you  she  is  losing  her  youth  and  hei 
beauty ;  she  looks  like  one  who  has  lived  through  years  of 
sorrow  and  care." 

"What  does  she  complain  of?"  inquired  Lady  Stafton, 

"  Nothing.  If  she  would  only  complain,  I  should  feel, 
much  happier." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  nothing,  after  all,"  said  Lady  Stafton. 

"  I  am  anxious  to  believe  it ;  but  what  can  have  changed 
her  so  entirely  ?  You  remember  how  bright  and  beautiful 
she  was — what  an  exquisite  color  she  had — how  bright  her 
eyes  shone  ?  All  that  has  disappeared  ;  she  looks  like  one 
who  weeps  all  night  and  watches  all  day." 

"  Perhaps  she  is  a  victim  to  some  love-affair,"  suggested 
Lady  Stafton. 

"  No  ;  I  must  have  known  something  of  it  if  that  had 
been  the  case.  She  has  never  been  in  love.  You  forget 
how  young  she  is." 

"  Is  she  grieving  over  her  father's  absence  ?"  asked 
Lady  Stafton. 

"  I  think  not ;  when  I  speak  of  his  return,  it  does  not 
seem  to  interest  her.  She  seems  always  the  same — tired 
wearied,  listless,  inert,  languid — she  who  used  to  be  all 
life  and  vivacity ;  I  cannot  account  for  the  change." 

"  You  should  try  to  rouse  her,  Helen  :  it  will  not  do  to 
give  way  to  her." 

"  So  I  do  ;  I  talk  to  her,  but  she  never  answers — she 
never  seems  to  hear.  Whenever  I  go  into  her  room  I  find 
her  sitting  at  the  window,  looking  with  tired,  dreamy  eyes 
over  the  sea.  If  I  take  her  a  book  to  read,  she  returns  it 
to  me ;  I  am  sure  to  discover  she  has  forgotten  all  about 
it.  How  am  I  to  rouse  her  ?  What  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

"  Something  must  have  caused  this  change,"  said  Lady 
Stafton,  musingly  ;  "  you  must  try  to  find  out  what  that 
something  is." 


I48  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  She  has  changed  even  toward  me,"  continued  Miss 
Digby.  "  She  used  to  dislike  me  very  much  ;  she  treated 
me  with  a  kind  of  half  wilful,  proud  defiance  that  amused 
even  while  it  pained  me.  All  that  has  gone  now ;  she  is 
so  submissive  that  she  obeys  me  implicitly  :  more  than  once 
she  clasped  her  arms  round  my  neck,  laid  her  head  on  my 
shoulder,  and  wept  until  I  really  thought  her  heart  would 
break." 

"  I  should  write  to  Sir  Leonard  and  ask  for  his  advice, 
Helen.  Perhaps  St.  Ina's  does  not  suit  her  ;  she  would 
be  better  at  Fountayne." 

"  I  asked  her  yesterday  if  she  would  like  to  return  there? 
but  she  did  not  take  the  least  interest  in  the  matter.  I  am 
afraid,-  if  she  continues  in  this  way,  she  will  lose  either  her 
reason  or  her  life." 

"  Go  back  to  Fountayne,  Helen  ;  the  journey,  the  change 
of  scene,  must  be  beneficial  to  her." 

"  I  think  it  would/'  agreed  Miss  Digby  ;  "  I  will  see 
what  Ethel  says." 

As  she  had  anticipated,  Ethel  appeared  quite  indifferent. 

"  If  you  are  willing,  Ethel,"  Helen  began,  "  I  should 
like  to  go  to  Fountayne  this  week." 

"I  am  quite  willing,"  was  the  listless  reply. 

"  If  you  would  prefer  to  remain  here,  we  can  easily  do 
so.  I  should  like  you  to  be  pleased." 

"  I  shall  be  content  with  any  decision  you  may  make, 
Helen,"  said  Ethel. 

And,  looking  into  the  wan,  white  face,  and  noting  the 
shadows  in  her  violet  eyes,  Helen  Digby  thought  to  her- 
self that  the  heart  of  proud,  beautiful  Ethel  Gordon  was 
most  surely  broken. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  1 49 


CHAPTER  XXXIII, 

THERE  was  considerable  excitement  when  Ethel  Gor* 
don  once  more  crossed  the  threshold  of  her  father's  house 
The  servants  looked  at  her  in  wonder.  What  had  hap- 
pened to  their  bright  young  mistress  ?  She  had  left  them 
only  a  few  short  months  since,  and  then  no  flower  had 
been  fairer  or  more  blooming.  She  returned  to  them,  her 
face  colorless,  her  eyes  shadowed  with  sorrow,  the  bright- 
ness gone  -from  her ;  there  were  no  more  smiles,  no  more 
sweet  snatches  of  song. 

"  I  can  hardly  believe,"  said  the  butler — an  important 
person  at  Fountayne — "  that  it  is  Miss  Gordon  ;  nor  can 
I  think  what  has  so  completely  changed  her." 

They  hoped  that  it  was  only  fatigue  from  her  journey, 
and  that  in  a  few  days  she  would  be  her  own  bright,  capri- 
cious, charming  self  again.  But  days  passed  on,  weeks 
elapsed,  and  no  change  came  to  her;  and  they  realized 
the  fact  that  her  girlish  gayety  had  gone  from  her  for 
ever. 

The  servants  had  been  tempted  at  first  to  resent  Miss 
Digby's  rule,  but  after  a  time  they  acknowledged  that  it 
was  well  that  she  was  there.  The  wilful,  pretty  imperious 
caprices  that  had  made  the  amusement  and  had  caused 
the  despair  of  the  whole  household  were  all  over.  Neither 
rule  nor  power  had  any  more  interest  for  Ethel.  Those 
who  went  to  ask  her  questions,  hoping  that  she  would 
evince  some  little  interest,  all  received  the  same  answer, 
the  same  listless  reply.  It  was  either,  "  I  know  nothing 
of  it,"  or,  «  You  had  better  ask  Miss  Digby." 

The  old  housekeeper  would  listen  with  tears  in  her 
eyes. 


1 5  o  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  If  she  would  only  scold  or  go  into  passions  like  she 
used  to  do,  I  should  not  care  ;  but  what  I  cannot  bear  is 
to  see  her  sitting  there,  looking  as  though  the  world  were 
all  over  for  her." 

It  had  been  a  terrible  trial  for  Ethel,  that  coming 
home.  She  had  been  so  completely  queen  and  mistress, 
her  reign  had  been  so  undisputed,  she  had  been  so  dearly 
loved.  Life  had  been  bright  for  her — bright  with  vague, 
pleasing  hopes.  They  were  all  blighted  now.  She  had 
left  home  the  fair,  proud  descendant  of  a  grand  old  race ; 
she  had  returned  the  wife  of  a  forger  and  a  thief.  She 
had  left  Fountayne  one  of  the  happiest,  gayest,  brightest 
of  human  beings ;  she  had  returned  without  an  interest  in 
life. 

It  had  been  terrible  to  her  that  coming  home;  the 
sight  of  the  familiar,  much-loved  spot  seemed  to  show  her, 
more  clearly  than  ever,  what  depths  of  degradation  sep- 
arated her  from  the  gay,  proud,  young  Ethel  who  had  been 
mistress  there.  She  walked  under  the  shade  of  the  tall, 
spreading  trees,  and  the  rustle  of  the  wind  among  the 
branches  seemed  to  have  a  voice.  That  voice  said  to  her  : 
"  You  are  the  first  degenerated  Gordon.  Your  prede- 
cessors were  faithful  and  true  ;  you  are  the  first  who  has 
married  a  forger  and  a  thief." 

She  walked  in  the  long  picture-gallery,  and  the  fair, 
proud  faces  of  the  Gordons,  long  since  dead,  seemed  to 
look  down  on  her  with  scornful  pity.  "  A  forger  and  a 
thief  ! "  She  fancied  each  proud  mouth  repeated  the 
words  ;  and  she  passed  along  the  gallery,  pale,  frightened, 
the  shadow  of  her  former  self.  In  after  years  she  tried  to 
remember  how  many  deaths  she  had  died  before  the 
golden  autumn  had  faded  into  chill  winter.  She  dreaded 
lest  this  terrible  secret  of  hers  should  be  known.  She 
would  have  suffered  any  torture,  she  would  have  endured 
any  punishment  rather  than  that.  What  if  Laurie  should 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  T  5  x 

write  and  claim  her,  saying  that  she  was  his  wife  ?  True, 
it  could  do  him  no  good — it  could  not  save  him  from  the 
consequences  of  his  crime.  Perhaps,  remembering  how 
young  she  was  and  how  completely  he  had  deceived  her,  he 
might  be  merciful,  and  spare  her. 

She  was  so  innocent,  so  inexperienced,  that  she  did  not 
know  where  to  write  to  him.  She  had  an  idea  of  sending 
him  a  passionate  appeal  for  silence  and  compassion ;  but 
how  should  she  address  her  letter  ?  Her  life  had  passed 
so  happily  until  now.  She  knew  in  some  vague  kind  of 
way,  that  there  were  sin,  sorrow,  and  crime  in  the  world — 
that  life  had  a  shady  side  all  unknown  to  the  innocent, 
she  knew  that  there  were  prisons  and  scaffolds — but  it 
was  all  in  the  vaguest  fashion.  She  had  never  seen  any- 
thing of  crime,  and  now  she  was  suddenly  brought  face  to 
face  with  it.  Her  own  husband — the  man  whom  she  had 
married  in  secrecy  and  haste — lay  in  a  felon's  cell.  The 
man  through  whose  aid  and  help  she  had  intended  to  tri- 
umph over  her  rival  was  bound  hand  and  foot  in  the  tram- 
mels of  stern,  terrible  justice. 

What  should  she  do  if  ever  he  wrote  to  claim  her  ?  She 
raised  her  beautiful,  despairing  face  to  the  bright  heavens. 

"  I  should  kill  myself  ?  "  she  said.  "  A  Gordon  could 
never  live  in  shame  !  " 

Every  loud  ring  at  the  hall  door,  every  unexpected  noise, 
every  look  of  excitement  on  the  faces  of  those  near  her, 
sent  a  thrill  of  fear  to  her  heart,  blanched  her  face,  and 
made  her  hands  tremble  so  that  whatever  she  was  holding 
fell.  It  seemed  to  her  that  her  living  moments  were  dying 
ones.  Yet  she  could  not  tell  what  she  dreaded.  Her  hus- 
band could  not  seek  her,  and  it  was  improbable  that  any 
one  knew  her  secret ;  still  the  terrible  fear  never  left  her, 
never  died  away. 

That  was  her  first  great  punishment  ;  the  second  was 
her  gradual  awakening  to  a  sense  of  what  she  had  done. 


!  5  2  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

It  had  seemed  like  a  feverish  dream  to  her.  She  had 
been  led  on  from  hour  to  hour — from  day  to  day  ;  she  had 
been  drawn  so  insensibly,  so  gradually,  into  the  net  that 
she  had  not  noticed  it.  Her  senses  had  been  steeped  in  a 
glamour  of  flattery,  homage  and  fancy  which  she  had  mis- 
taken for  love.  The  desire  for  vengeance  had  hurried  her 
on,  the  pictured  dream  of  a  clever  triumph  had  closed 
her  eyes  to  all  else.  It  had  been  a  dream,  and  the  awaken- 
ing  was  terrible  to  her. 

Looking  back  calmly,  she  could  not  believe  that  she 
— Ethel  Gordon — had  been  so  blindly  misled.  Now  that 
it  was  too  late,  she  asked  herself  where  was  her  pride,  her 
dignity,  her  self-respect — where  the  pride  of  race  and 
name  that  should  have  kept  her  from  so  terrible  a  blunder, 
so  great  a  folly,  so  miserable  a  sin  ? 

Perhaps  that  was  the  greatest  punishment  of  all.  She 
would  look  around  her  with  despairing  eyes,  asking  herself 
how  long  she  had  to  live — how  long  she  must  carry  this 
terrible  burden  of  sorrow  and  shame.  There  was  no  help 
for  her — no  human  aid  or  power  could  help  her.  She  had 
taken  her  vows  before  Heaven,  and  only  Heaven  could 
release  her  from  them.  No  wonder  she  buried  her  face  in 
her  hands,  hated  the  bright  sunshine,  and  longed  only  for 
death. 

There  were  long  nights  when  no  sleep  came  to  her, 
when  with  rapid  steps  she  would  walk  up  and  down  her 
room,  wringing  her  hands,  uttering  from  time  to  time  a 
low,  passionate  cry,  longing  with  impotent  wrath  to  have 
Laurie  Carrington  punished  for  what  he  had  done  to 
her. 

"  It  was  so  cruel,"  she  said — "  so  bitterly  cruel."  To 
satisfy  his  selfish  love  he  had  blighted  the  whole  of  her  fail 
young  life.  "  What  had  she  done,"  she  asked  with  weep- 
ing eyes,  "  that  Heaven  should  punish  her  so  cruelly  ? " 

There  were  whole  days  when  she  could  do  nothing 


REPENTED  AT  LEISURE.  rtj3 

when  she  wandered  listlessly  from  room  to  room,  her 
beautiful  face  restless  with  pain,  unable  to  read,  to  sing, 
finding  only  in  perpetual  movement  a  solace  for  her  most 
grievous  pain.  She  knew  that  time  would  deaden  it,  that 
a  day  would  come  when  only  a  dull  stupor  would  tell  what 
she  had  suffered,  but  it  seemed  long  in  coming. 

The  friends  and  neighbors  who  had  known  her  when 
her  life  was  all  sunshine  looked  wonderingly  at  her  now, 
but  neither  wonder,  nor  pity,  nor  compassion,  nor  sympathy 
touched  Ethel — she  was  becoming  indifferent  to  all. 

There  were  times,  too,  when  she  felt  a  terrible  craving, 
a  desire  that  she  might  wake  and  find  it  all  a  dream,  that 
she  might  wake  and  find  herself  Ethel  Gordon  again — gay, 
frank,  proud,  bewitching  Ethel — that  she  might  emerge 
from  this  dark  cloud  and  sun  herself  once  more  in  the 
brightness  of  life.  How  she  longed  for  it !  But  the  die 
was  cast,  and  life  was  to  be  no  bright  dream  for  her. 

She  laughed  sometimes — a  bitter,  reckless  laugh — when 
she  remembered  her  father's  words — how  he  had  proph- 
esied that  if  she  did  not  rid  herself  of  her  pride  and  wilful 
humor  a  mightier  hand  would  do  it  for  her. 

Gradually  everything  fell  into  its  old  routine  at  Foun- 
tayne.  Miss  Digby  more  than  verified  Sir  Leonard's  pre- 
dictions. She  made  an  excellent  mistress  for  the  Hall ; 
her  rule  was  firm  and  gentle.  She  was  liked  and  respected 
but  there  was  no  such  passionate  attachment  as  had  been 
expressed  for  Ethel  Gordon. 

"  I  am  almost  afraid  to  meet  your  father,  Ethel,"  said 
Helen  Digby  one  day.  "  What  will  he  say  to  me  when  he 
looks  at  you  ? " 

"  Why  should  he  say  anything  at  all  ?  "  asked  Ethel. 

"  Oh  !  my  dear,  my  dear,  you  are  so  altered — you  are 
so  terribly  changed  !  Oh  !  Ethel  if  I  could  only  make  you 
what  you  used  to  be — if  I  could  bring  back  the  brightness  to 
your  face,  the  light  to  your  eyes — if  I  could  give  you  some 


1 5 4  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

of  your  old  defiant  frankness,  my  darling,  I  would  sacri* 
fice  all  I  have  in  the  world  !  " 

"Am  I  so  terribly  changed?"  she  inquired,  with  a 
slow  smile. 

Helen  Digby  raised  her  hand  and  pointed  to  a  lilac- 
tree. 

"  There  is  just  as  much  difference,"  she  said,  "  between 
you  as  I  knew  you  first  and  you  are  now,  as  there  is  be- 
tween that  tree  when  it  is  covered  with  fragrant  flowers 
and  that  tree  as  it  stands — without  a  bloom." 

Ethel  smiled  again,  the  slow  sad  smile  which  never 
brightened  the  violet  eyes.  She  knew  the  comparison  was 
correct. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  IS  5 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

MORE  tahn  two  years  had  passed  since  Ethel  Gordon 
had  contracted  her  fatal  marriage  vows  ;  what  she  had 
foreseen  came  true.  The  smart  of  her  pain,  the  intolera- 
ble anguish,  had  died  away — and  given  place  to  a  dull 
stupor,  from  which  she  made  no  effort  to  arouse  herself. 
By  this  time  she  realized  what  she  had  done,  and  knew 
that  as  long  as  life  lasted  there  was  no  hope,  no  chance 
for  her  ;  she  would  have  to  bear  her  burden  in  secrecy 
and  misery  until  death  released  her.  She  had  grown  re- 
signed to  it  with  a  hopeless,  proud,  cold  kind  of  resig- 
nation ;  she  suffered  proudly,  even  as  she  had  sinned. 
Helen  Digby  had  grown  accustomed  to  the  change,  while 
the  servants  had  ceased  to  comment  upon  it  ;  and  when 
Sir  Leonard  returned  it  struck  him  with  all  the  force  of  a 
terrible  blow. 

He  came  home  one  autumn  evening,  and  his  first  words 
were.  "  Where  is  Ethel  ?  "  She  had  not  hastened  to 
greet  him  as  he  thought  she  would.  Conscience  had  made 
a  coward  of  her.  She  was  almost  afraid  he  would  read  her 
secret  in  her  face — that  face  of  which  he  had  once  been  so 
proud. 

Slowly  and  quietly  she  came  to  him  ;  the  evening  light 
shone  full  upon  her.  It  showed  him  clearly  the  colorless 
cheeks,  the  sad  eyes  ;  and  for  a  few  minutes  he  hardly 
recognized  his  darling.  She  had  been  wont  to  walk  with 
such  light,  buoyant  grace — her  steps  had  made  music  in 
his  ears  ;  now  every  movement  was  sad  and  slow.  Sir 
Leonard  looked  at  her  in  dismay. 

"  Helen,"  he  said,  "  is  this  Ethel  ?  My  darling,  what 
have  you  been  doing  ?  What  has  happened  to  you." 


! 56  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

She  clung  round  his  neck,  her  tender  arms  holding  him 
as  though  she  would  never  let  him  go  again.  She  shed  a 
few  quiet  tears — hopeless,  despairing  tears  ;  his  presence 
brought  the  old  happy  life  back  to  her  so  forcibly,  the  life 
wherein  she  had  been  so  free,  so  happy — wherein  she  had 
carried  no  terrible  burden  of  fear  and  despair.  \ 

Sir  Leonard  unclasped  her  arms,  and  looked  earnestly 
at  her. 

"  How  beautiful  you  have  grown,  Ethel !  "  he  said. 
"  But  it  is  the  beauty  of  a  sad  woman,  not  a  bright  young 
girl." 

She  tried  to  look  and  speak  like  her  old  self. 

"  It  is  your  fancy,  papa,"  she  said.  "  Why  should  I  be 
sad — now  especially  when  I  have  you  back  ?  " 

Sir  Leonard  said  no  more  just  then  ;  but  that  evening, 
after  Ethel  had  left  them,  he  asked  Helen  Digby  to  give 
him  five  or  ten  minutes — he  wanted  to  speak  to  her  par- 
ticularly. He  wished  to  thank  her  for  her  constancy,  her 
goodness,  her  care  for  his  interests,  her  kindness — to 
arrange  for  the  time  of  their  marriage  ;  but,  above  all,  he 
wished  to  speak  to  her  of  Ethel — to  ask  what  had  hap- 
pened to  the  child — what  ailed  her. 

"  Believe  me,  Helen,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  that  in  all  my 
life  I  have  never  seen  such  a  change.  She  was  a  bright, 
wilful,  laughing  girl  when  I  went  away,  now  she  looks  like 
one  who  for  long  years  has  carried  a  terrible  burden  of 
sorrow.  Helen,  I  know  you  will  be  perfectly  frank  with 
me — have  you  any  clue  to  this  mystery — have  you  any  idea 
of  what  has  changed  her  ?  " 

Helen  Digby  raised  her  clear,  truthful  eyes  to  his. 

"  I  have  not  the  least  idea  in  the  world,"  she  ans- 
wered. 

"  Has  she  had  a  lover,  or  anything  of  that  kind  ?  " 

"  No.  You  must  remember  that  she  has  never  been 
a  day  away  from  me — not  one  single  day,  Leonard.  She 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  !  5  7 

could  not  have  had  a  lover  without  my  knowing  it.  But  I 
hardly  like  to  say  what  I  think." 

"  Say  anything  you  please  to  me,  Helen.  I  know  youi 
interest  in  my  darling  is  as  great  almost  as  my  own." 

"  I  think,  candidly,  she  detests  all  notion  of  love  and 
lovers.  She  is  so  unlike  other  girls,  Leonard — she  never 
seems  to  care  for  admiration,  not  even  to  like  it.  I  do  not 
believe  she  will  ever  marry." 

"  It  is  strange,"  said  Sir  Leonard,  musingly. 

"  But  true,"  she  supplemented. 

"  You  say  the  first  beginning  of  all  this  was  an  illness 
caused  by  a  sunstroke  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,"  replied  Miss  Digby.  "  One  warm  sum- 
mer day  Ethel  went  out  for  a  long  ramble — she  was  always 
fond  of  the  woods.  When  she  returned  she  had  a  severe 
fainting  fit.  She  was  ill  for  some  days  after  it,  and  I  do 
not  think  she  has  ever  been  the  same  since." 

"  We  must  see  what  change  of  scene  will  do  for  her," 
said  Sir  Leonard.  "  If  you  will  consent,  Helen,  our  wed- 
ding trip  will  be  to  France  and  Italy.  Ethel  will  like  that, 
I  am  sure." 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  advise  one  thing,  Leonard  ?  " 
asked  Helen  timidly.  "  Do  not  talk  to  Ethel  about  her- 
self. She  is  very  proud,  very  reticent ;  and  I  have  noticed 
that  any  reference  to  herself  gives  her  pain.  She  seems  to 
shrink  from  it.  I  could  not  do  much  for  her  while  you 
were  away  ;  but  I  should  say  that  plenty  of  change,  cheer- 
ful society,  and  not  appearing  to  notice  her  depression  and 
melancholy,  would  be  the  best  cure  for  both." 

"  You  are  very  wise,  Helen  ;  I  quite  agree  with  you. 
And  now,  will  you  think  of  rewarding  my  patience  ?  I  have 
waited  almost  three  years." 

It  was  settled  that  their  marriage  should  take  place  in 
September. 


jg8  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  Then,"  said  Sir  Leonard,  "  we  can  spend  the  wintel 
in  Italy — and  that  will  do  Ethel  good." 

The  morning  following,  Sir  Leonard  saw  his  daughter 
walking  in  the  grounds  ;  he  joined  her  there.  She  was  in 
her  favorite  spot — the  grove  of  lime-trees. 

"  I  often  thought  of  these  lime-trees  while  I  was  away,' 
he  said.  u  Ethel,  I  am  glad  to  find  you  here  alone  ;  I  want 
to  speak  to  you." 

He  saw  her  shrink  with  a  kind  of  nervous  dread. 

"  It  is  not  of  yourself,"  he  hastened  to  add,  "  unless  I 
stop  for  one  minute  to  express  my  great  satisfaction.  You 
have  grown,  Ethel,  and  you  are  exceedingly  beautiful.  I 
do  not  want  to  flatter  you,  but  I  do  not  think  among  all 
the  Gordons  we  have  had  one  more  fair  than  you." 

She  sighed  to  herself  that  this  beauty  had  been  but  of 
little  use  to  her — that  his  pride  in  it  would  be  but  of  short 
duration. 

"  You  will  not  be  surprised  to  hear  that  I  hope  to  be 
married  soon,"  he  continued. 

"  No/'  she  said,  gently ;  "  I  quite  expected  it." 

"  You  have  grown  to  like  Helen,  Ethel,  as  I  thought 
you  would." 

Her  colorless  face  flushed. 

"  She  has  been  very  kind  and  good  to  me,  papa ;  I  do 
not  think  any  one  could  have  been  kinder." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it ;  I  knew  it  would  be  so.  We  shall  be 
very  happy,  Ethel " — and  then  Sir  Leonard  paused  in  sheer 
wonder. 

What  had  come  to  her  ?  He  remembered  certain  in- 
cidents before  he  went  away  :  he  called  to  mind  her  pride, 
her  defiance,  her  pretty,  wilful,  imperious  ways,  her  caresses 
and  persuasions.  What  had  made  her  so  meek,  so  gentle, 
so  submissive  ? 

He  was  about  to  say  something  as  to  the  change,  when 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  159 

he  remembered  Helen's  advice  and  was  silent.     After  a 
time  he  continued, — 

"  You  will  be  Helen's  bride-maid,  Ethel  ?  She  particu- 
larly wishes  it  ? " 

She  shrank  back,  pale  and  shuddering— scared  at  the  very 
utterance  of  the  words.  Then  her  face  flushed  crimson, 
and  a  strange  light  came  into  her  eyes. 

"  Papa,  do  not  think  me  wanting  in  respect,  but  indeed 
I  could  not.  I  have  such  a  nervous  dread  of  weddings 
that  it  would  make  me  ill  to  see  one." 

"  Why,  Ethel,  how  unlike  you  are  to  other  girls  !  I  should 
have  thought  that  of  all  things  a  wedding  would  have  pleased 
you  best." 

He  laughed  and  spoke  jestingly ;  but  he  was  startled 
at  the  pallor  of  her  face.  What  could  it  mean  ? 

"  But,  papa,"  she  said,  "  I  am  not  jesting.  You  cannot 
tell  how  much  I  dread  anything  of  that  kind.  It  is  not 
girlish  nonsense.  I  am  a  girl  no  longer.  Sometimes  I 
think  I  am  older  than  any  one  who  has  ever  lived — I  feel 
so  old." 

"  A  wedding  will  make  you  feel  young  again,"  returned 
Sir  Leonard.  "  Seriously,  Ethel,  you  must  comply  with 
my  wish.  To  do  otherwise  would  be  to  slight  Helen  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world,  and  that  I  am  sure  you  do  not  desire." 

"  I  should  be  unwilling  to  do  that,"  she  said,  gravely. 
"  If  you  insist,  or  if  you  think  it  needful,  I  will  comply." 

"  Will  you  tell  me,  Ethel,  why  you  dislike  weddings  ?  " 

asked  Sir  Leonard.      The  words  had  struck  him  painfully. 

"  I  think  they  are  very  solemn,  very  grave  affairs,"  she 

replied,  trying  to  speak  lightly ;  and  her  father  felt  relieved 

— it  was  only  a  girlish,  a  nervous  fancy  after  all. 

The  wedding-day  came.  Helen  Digby  was  married 
from  Lady  Stafton's  house,  and  Lady  Stafton  made  the 
most  of  a  brilliant  entertainment.  The  bride  herself  looked 
very  fair  and  comely,  the  bridegroom  manly  and  gallant ; 


1 60  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

but  every  one  there  talked  in  low  tones  of  the  marvellous 
beauty,  and  pale,  starry  loveliness  of  the  young  girl  who 
was  Helen's  bride-maid — the  girl  who,  while  the  solemn 
marriage  service  was  read,  drew  her  white  lace  shawl  round 
her  shoulders  and  shuddered  as  if  with  mortal  cold. 

They  talked  in  low  tones,  wondering  what  it  was  about 
the  girl  that  seemed  so  cold  and  strange,  wondering  why 
the  marvellous  face  never  lighted  up,  nor  the  beautifully 
curved  lips  parted  with  a  smile.  Ethel's  loveliness  and 
grace  created  some  little  excitement  among  Lady  Stafton's 
guests — the  ladies  all  admired  her,  the  men  were  quite 
enthusiastic  about  her;  but,  although  the  most  delicate, 
subtle,  graceful  flattery  was  offered  to  her,  and  the  most 
exquisite  compliments  were  paid  to  her,  no  man  could 
boast  of  a  kind  word  or  a  smile  from  her. 

Amidst  the  splendor  of  the  wedding,  the  homage 
that  floated  around  her,  the  admiration  her  loveliness  ex- 
cited, Ethel  never  forgot  one  thing — that  she  was  the  wife 
of  a  forger  and  a  thief.  The  guests  might  wonder  at  the 
grave,  proud,  collected  manner,  but  no  one  even  suspected 
the  secret  that  had  brought  to  Ethel  death  in  life 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  167 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

SIR  LEONARD  and  his  wife  enjoyed  the  wedding-trip 
exceedingly.  No  one  knew  whether  Ethel  enjoyed  it  or 
not ;  she  was  quiet,  listless,  almost  indifferent.  But  her 
father,  who  knew  how  dearly  she  loved  all  art,  how  greatly 
she  admired  everything  that  was  rare  and  beautiful,  thought 
she  must  be  pleased.  He  did  not  know  of  the  dark,  ter- 
rible curtain  that  shaded  from  her  everything  fair  and 
bright. 

They  lingered  through  the  winter  months  in  Italy,  and 
then,  when  the  spring  came  round,  they  made  preparations 
for  returning  to  England.  Lady  Gordon  expressed  a  wish 
to  spend  a  few  days  in  Paris,  and  Sir  Leonard  engaged  a 
suite  of  rooms  at  the  Hotel  Bristol. 

They  were  at  breakfast  there  one  morning  when  a  large 
packet  of  letters  arrived  from  England.  Lady  Gordon  sat 
smiling  at  her  husband,  who  was  making  himself  uncom- 
fortable by  wondering  why  French  cooks  never  made  good 
tea.  Ethel  was  absently  looking  over  the  columns  of  a 
daily  paper,  when  the  letters  were  brought  in,  and  Sir 
Leonard  in  haste  took  them  from  the  waiter's  hands. 

"  More  compliments  and  congratulations,"  he  said. 
"  Why,  Helen  we  have  been  married  some  months  now, 
nevertheless  our  friends  are  not  tired  of  wishing  us  joy 
even  yet." 

As  he  spoke  he  gave  Lady  Gordon  several  letters  ad- 
dressed to  himself. 

"  You  seem  to  have  no  correspondents,  Ethel,"  he  re« 
marked — "  no  letters  ever  come  for  you." 

"  I  never  write  any/7  she  explained. 


!  62  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  That  seems  strange.  Have  you  no  young  lady  friend 
whom  you  care  for  ? " 

"The  only  two  friends  whon  I  love  are  here,"  she  re- 
plied. 

Sir  Leonard  continued, — 

"  You  are  so  different  from  other  girls,  Ethel ;  I  should 
be  better  pleased,  my  dear,  to  know  that  you  had  girlish 
friends,  and  cared  for  them,  than  to  see  you  indifferent  to 
everything  and  every  one  alike." 

Then  Sir  Leonard  opened  his  letters — Lady  Gordon 
was  already  deeply  engrossed  in  hers.  The  baronet  read 
two  or  three  and  laid  them  down.  There  was  a  large  one 
with  a  Government  seal,  and  Sir  Leonard's  face  flushed 
with  pleasure  as  he  read  it. 

"  That  is  very  gratifying,"  he  said ;  "  the  result  of  my 
mission  to  Vienna  has  been  so  excellent  that  I  am  offered 
an  excellent  Government  appointment — it  will  oblige  me 
to  remain  in  London  during  the  Parliamentary  season, 
though." 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,"  responded  Lady  Gordon  ; 
"  I  am  proud  that  your  merit  and  talent  are  appreciated." 

"  And  you  Ethel/'  asked  Sir  Leonard,  "  have  you 
nothing  to  say  to  me  ? " 

She  clasped  her  arms  in  her  old  girlish  fashion  round 
his  neck  and  laid  her  beautiful  face  close  to  his. 

"  I  am  proud  of  you,  papa,"  she  said ;  and  then  her 
heart  grew  cold  with  the  thought  of  what  he — to  whom 
honor  was  so  justly  paid — would  say  if  he  knew  that  she 
was  the  wife  of  a  felon. 

Sir  Leonard  laughed  a  low,  happy  laugh,  that  did  his 
wife's  heart  good  to  hear. 

"  I  shall  have  the  fairest,  kindest  wife,  and  the  most 
beautiful  daughter  in  London,"  he  remarked.  "  Ethel, 
you  will  have  to  look  more  kindly  upon  lovers  there." 

She  shrank  back  as  though  his  words  had  stabbed  her. 


REPENTED  AT  LEISURE.  ^3 

"  I  will  not  have  lovers,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  papa,  never 
speak  to  me  of  such  !  " 

He  laughed  again,  thinking  that  a  woman  so  royally 
beautiful  must  hear  of  love  and  lovers,  whether  she  liked 
it  or  not.  Then  he  returned  to  his  letters.  The  next  was 
one  with  a  deep  black  border,  and  as  he  read,  the  smile 
died  from  Sir  Leonard's  face,  and  pained,  half-bewildered 
surprise  came  instead. 

"  Ethel — Helen,"  he  cried,  "  here  is  strange  news — so 
strange  ! " 

Lady  Gordon  put  down  her  cup,  and  looked  at  her 
husband. 

"  What  is  it  Leonard  ?"  she  asked  briefly. 

"  I  cannot  believe  that  it  is  true,"  he  said ;  "  it  seems 
incredible.  Tell  me  Helen,  am  I  dreaming  or  waking  ?  " 

"  Waking,  Leonard.  What  has  surprised  you  so 
much  ? " 

"  Listen,  Ethel — listen,  Helen,  sweet  wife,  Lord  St. 
Norman  is  dead.  He  was  my  cousin,  once  removed.  He 
is  dead,  and  I  am  his  heir.  I  am  Lord  St.  Norman,  now. 
Tell  me,  am  I  dreaming,  or  awake  ? " 

"  Awake,  most  certainly,"  replied  his  wife.  "  How  has 
your  good  fortune  come  about,  Leonard  ?  " 

"  Unexpectedly,  and  somewhat  incomprehensibly ;  for 
Lord  St.  Norman  was  quite  a  young  man.  I  knew  that  I 
was  his  next  of  kin,  but  I  never  even  thought  of  being  his 
heir.  I  expected  he  would  marry  and  have  children  of  his 
own.  He  was  quite  young,  and  was  engaged  to  marry 
Lady  Mary  Semour." 

There  was  silence  for  some  minutes,  and  then  Ethel, 
looking  at  her  father,  asked, — 

"  Are  you  pleased,  papa  ?  " 

"  I  hardly  know,  my  dear — I  suppose  I  am.  I  shall  be 
a  very  rich  man.  I  am  not  sure,  but  I  think  I  like  my  own 
name  of  Gordon  best,  Helen.  You  will  be  a  great  lady 


!  64  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

now,  my  dear.  You  will  be  Lady  St.  Norman,  of  Norman's 
Keep,  in  Devonshire  ;  Yarnold  Abbey,  in  Yorkshire ;  Rosse, 
in  Scotland  ; — and  mistress  of  a  large  mansion — Brookdale 
House — in  London,  as  well  as  of  a  pretty  villa  in  the  Isle 
of  Wight.  Do  you  not  feel  much  elated,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  replied,  simply.  "  I  was  always  proud  of 
being  your  wife,  Leonard.  Nothing  could  add  to  that 
honor." 

Which  little  speech  so  delighted  Lord  St.  Norman  that 
he  rose  from  his  seat  and  kissed  Helen's  fair,  comely  face/ 
and  then  he  looked  at  Ethel. 

"  This  makes  a  great  difference  in  your  prospects, 
Ethel ;  it  will  make  you  one  of  the  richest  heiresses  in  Eng- 
land. You  must  prepare  for  a  regular  siege." 

"  Why  must  it  make  me  a  great  heiress,  papa  ?  "  she 
asked  quietly. 

"  Because,  my  dear,  I  shall  be  able  to  leave  you  a  very 
large  fortune — one  that  will  surprise  you.  For  your  sake  I 
am  very  well  pleased,  Ethel." 

For  her  sake — she  smiled  bitterly  to  herself.  What 
difference  could  it  make  to  her,  the  forger's  wife's  ?  A 
large  fortune  could  do  nothing  for  her.  All  the  money 
that  was  ever  coined  could  not  help  her.  She  had  flung 
away  every  hope  in  life  to  become  the  wife  of  a  convicted 
felon. 

"  Ethel."  cried  her  father,  "  do  not  look  sad,  You  must 
help  me  to  write  some  letters.  And,  Helen,  will  you  see 
that  all  preparations  are  made  for  our  return  ?  We  must 
go  to  Norman's  Keep — at  least,  I  must.  You  had  better 
follow  in  a  few  days,  after  the  funeral  is  over." 

"  Papa,"  said  Ethel,  turning  to  him  suddenly,  "  are  you 
surprised  ?  " 

"  In  some  measure,  of  course.  I  knew  that  I  was  the 
late  lord's  heir-at-law ;  but,  as  he  was  young,  and  was  en- 
gaged to  be  married,  I  really  never  thought  there  was  any 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  !  65 

probability  of  my  succession.  Seriously  speaking,  it  is  a 
very  excellent  thing  for  you,  Ethel.  With  your  beauty  and 
fortune  you  may  attain  one  of  the  highest  positions  in  Eng- 
land. I  am  hopeful  for  you." 

She  turned  away,  sick  at  heart.  Not  by  one  word  would 
she  damp  the  ardor  of  his  hopes  or  show  him  how  futile 
they  were  ;  not  by  one  word  would  she  hint  to  him  that 
plans  and  hopes  were  all  vain  for  her.  She  was  already 
the  wife  of  a  forger  and  a  thief. 

When  Lord  St.  Norman  had  quitted  the  room,  Helen 
went  up  to  Ethel,  and  raising  the  beautiful  face  with  her 
hands,  looked  long  and  wistfully  at  it. 

"  Ethel,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  you  have  kept  your  own 
counsel.  Something  has  happened  in  your  life — I  know 
not  what — which  has  changed  you  from  a  gay,  bright  girl 
into  a  sad,  unhappy  woman.  I  see  it  now,  and  have 
guessed  it  for  some  time  past.  I  am  not  seeking  to  learn 
your  secret,  Ethel ;  but,  my  dear  child,  this  much  I  do  ask 
you :  could  you  not,  for  your  father's  sake,  lay  aside  this 
depression,  and  be  more  like  other  girls — for  his  sake,  dear, 
— to  give  him  pleasure  ?  " 

"  Am  I  not  like  other  girls  ? "  she  asked. 

"  No,  you  are  quite  different  from  all  others,"  replied 
Lady  St.  Norman. 

"  Then,  to  please  you,  Helen,  and  to  please  my  father, 
I  will  really  strive  to  copy  them.  I  can  promise  no  more.55 

But  with  that  Helen  was  almost  content,  knowing  that 
what  Ethel  said  she  would  do, 


1 66  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

A  BRIGHT,  beautiful  May  day.  In  Brookdale  House 
every  one  seemed  to  be  unusually  busy  and  excited,  for  to- 
day Lady  St.  Norman  and  Miss  St.  Norman  were  to  be 
introduced  to  her  most  gracious  Majesty.  Lady  St.  Nor- 
man, usually  so  calm,  so  gentle,  so  placid,  owned  that  she 
was  agitated. 

She  was  surprised  that  Ethel  did  not  manifest  more  in- 
terest. Lord  St.  Norman's  daughter  seemed  to  think  but 
little  of  the  great  event  which  gave  her  stepmother  so  much 
pleasure.  If  her  father  had  not  insisted,  she  would  not 
have  agreed  to  go  at  all. 

"  It  was  all  very  well  for  others,"  said  Ethel  to  herself 
— "  for  girls  who  had  a  happy  future,  a  bright,  pleasant 
life  before  them — but,  for  her,  there  seemed  something  in- 
congruous about  it/' 

The  wife  of  a  forger  and  a  thief  to  be  received  at  Court ! 
She  smiled  bitterly  to  herself  as  she  thought  of  it.  Instead 
of  going  to  Court  or  mingling  with  the  gay  and  happy,  the 
poor  child  would  fain  have  hidden  herself,  her  sorrow  and 
despair,  from  all  mortal  eyes.  In  vain  she  had  begged  her 
father  to  leave  her  at  Norman's  Keep,  to  let  her  stay  at 
Fountayne,  to  place  her  anywhere,  rather  than  ask  her  to 
take  her  position  in  the  great  world. 

"  Of  what  use  is  it  ? "  she  asked  herself.  "  Other  girls 
have  some  hope — the  hope  of  love,  of  marriage,  of  hap- 
piness, of  pleasure  ;  I  have  none." 

The  very  word  "  love"  was  distasteful  to  her.  What 
had  love  done  for  her  but  plunge  her  into  such  a  dark  gulf 
of  misery  as  she  could  not  be  rescued  from  ? 

Lord  and  Lady  St.  Norman  both  wondered  why  Ethel 


REPENTED  AT  LEISURE.  167 

shrank  from  the  society  of  young  girls  of  her  own  age. 
She  seemed  to  avoid  and  dread  them.  Their  pretty  inno- 
cent conversation,  their  ideas  of  love  and  lovers,  were  all 
full  of  pain  to  her ;  their  girlish  laughter  seemed  to  hurt 
her,  their  freedom  from  care  was  to  her  like  a  reproach. 

"  I  shall  never  be  as  they  are,"  she  was  wont  to  say  to 
herself  ;  "  there  will  be  no  more  laughter  or  song,  no  more 
pleasure  or  brightness  for  me." 

Lord  St.  Norman  had  taken  possession  of  his  new  es- 
tates ;  he  had  attended  the  funeral  of  the  late  lord,  had 
administered  to  his  will,  arranged  all  his  affairs,  and  had 
decided  that  Norman's  Keep  should  be  the  principal  place 
of  abode  of  himself  and  his  family.  He  had  been  warmly 
welcomed  by  the  tenantry,  with  whom  the  late  lord  had 
not  been  a  favorite — young  and  thoughtless,  he  had  not 
looked  after  their  interests  or  attended  to  their  wants. 

The  new  lord  promised  to  be  very  different,  and  he  was 
welcomed  accordingly.  People  were  all  anxious  to  make 
his  acquaintance.  As  Sir  Leonard  Gordon,  he  had  been 
well  known  in  diplomatic  circles,  but  not  beyond  them — 
now,  with  his  new  title,  every  one  felt  an  interest  in  him. 

It  was  known  that  he  had  only  one  daughter,  and  much 
wonder  was  afloat  about  her.  Some  had  known  beautiful 
Ethel  Gordon  when  she  lived  in  the  quiet  retirement  of 
Fountayne — when  she  had  been  content  with  county  so- 
ciety. But  Lord  St.  Norman's  heiress  was  a  very  different 
person.  In  the  great  world  people  were  all  desirous  of 
welcoming  her. 

The  family  had  gone  to  London,  and  had  taken  posses- 
sion of  Brookdale  House.  Both  ladies  were  to  be  pre- 
sented on  the  same  day,  the  only  difference  being  that  one 
looked  forward  to  the  event  with  the  keenest  pleasure,  the 
other  with  the  keenest  pain.  Lady  St.  Norman  was  pleased 
with  her  court  costume — she  was  delighted  with  the  grand 
old  family  diamonds  ;  while  Ethel  stood  in  all  the  grandeur 


1 68  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

of  her  beauty  before  the  large  mirror,  and  never  even  re« 
marked  the  color  of  the  dress  she  was  wearing. 

"  Of  what  use  is  it  all  ? "  was  the  burden  of  her  thoughts. 
"  Of  what  use  ?  " 

Lord  St.  Norman  had  purchased  an  exquisite  suite  of 
pearls  and  rubies  for  her ;  he  intended  them  as  a  surprise 
on  the  day  of  her  presentation — and  a  delightful  surprise 
they  were.  He  gave  them  to  her  himself. 

"  That  is  the  greatest  pleasure  I  have  had  since  I  have 
been  a  rich  man/'  he  said.  "  I  always  longed  to  be  able 
to  give  you  bright  and  beautiful  jewels,  Ethel,  you  are  so 
beautiful  yourself.  Now  my  longing  has  been  gratified." 
She  opened  the  cases.  The  time  had  been  when  her 
face  would  have  flushed  with  pleasure  and  her  eyes  have 
gleamed  with  delight  at  the  sight  of  those  gorgeous  jewels. 
Now,  as  she  looked  at  them,  her  face  grew  pale,  her  eyes 
dim  with  tears. 

"  They  are  too  good,  too  costly  for  me,  papa,"  she  said. 
Lord  St.  Norman  smiled. 

"  Why,  Ethel,  you  are  growing  humble  !"  he  exclaimed. 
"  Too  good  for  you  !  In  my  opinion  there  is  no  jewel  too 
costly  for  you,  my  darling." 

She  held  up  her  hand  with  a  little  gesture  of  infinite  pain, 
but  she  uttered  no  word  ;  she  could  not  explain  to  him — 
the  proud,  indulgent  father,  who  valued  his  riches  only  be- 
cause they  ministered  to  her  pleasure — that  jewels  did  not 
befit  her.  She  was  the  wife  of  a  forger  and  a  thief. 

"  Take  them,  my  darling,"  he  requested,  "  and  be 
happy ;  I  would  give  all  I  have  in  the  world,  Ethel,  to  see  a 
brighter  look  on  your  face." 

She  kissed  him  and  thanked  him,  trying  to  hide  her 
despair  behind  a  smiling  countenance,  and  on  the  day  of 
her  presentation  at  Court  she  wore  them. 

Lord  St.  Norman  had  always  been  proud  of  his 
daughter — he  had  always  rejoiced  in  her  glorious  beauty  ; 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  !  69 

but  on  this  day  he  was  prouder  than  ever.  The  court  cos- 
tume suited  her  regal  style  of  beauty  ;  her  very  indiffer- 
ence to  her  own  loveliness  seemed  to  increase  it  ;  and  at 
Court  she  created  a  sensation  rarely  equalled. 

The  day  following,  every  one  was  in  raptures  concern- 
ing her ;  the  fashionable  papers,  which  gave  a  full  descrip- 
tion of  her  costume,  spoke  of  her  marvellous  beauty  ;  men 
at  their  clubs,  ladies  in  their  drawing-rooms,  discussed 
her.  She  woke  one  morning  to  find  herself  famous,  to 
find  her  name  on  every  lip,  to  find  men  eloquent  in  her 
praise. 

Invitations  poured  in  upon  her  ;  the  beautiful  Miss  St. 
Norman  was  worshipped  like  a  queen.  She  received  all 
homage  with  indifference. 

Lord  St.  Norman  was  delighted  with  his  daughter's 
success.  On  the  morning  after  the  Drawing-room,  as  they 
sat  together  at  breakfast,  he  complimented  her. 

"  You  have  all  the  world  at  your  feet,  Ethel,"  he  said. 

But  Helen,  looking  into  the  face  of  the  girl  she  had 
grown  to  love  so  dearly,  thought  to  herself  that  even  the 
homage  of  the  whole  world  would  bring  no  happiness  to 
Ethel. 

"  The  Duchess  of  Listborough,  Lady  Bramfield — how 
many  more  invitations  have  you  ?  "  asked  her  father,  look- 
ing over  the  cards.  "  Why,  Ethel,  if  the  days  were  forty- 
eight,  instead  of  twenty-four  hours  long,  you  could  not 
accept  all  these  ?  " 

To  his  surprise  she  seemed  neither  elated  nor  flattered. 
He  could  not  understand  her.  It  seemed  most  unnatural 
that  she  should  be  so  completely  indifferent  to  the  admira^ 
tion  of  the  fashionable  world.  That  same  day  Lord  St. 
Norman  said  to  his  wife. 

"  Helen,  I  cannot  imagine  why  Ethel  differs  so  greatly 
from  other  girls.  I  think  I  should  prefer  her  as  she  was, 
with  all  her  faults,  her  pride,  her  love  of  power — the  Ethel 


!  7  o  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

of  old,  who  was  always  capricious,  always  charming,  to  the 
Ethel  who  has  grown  patient,  submissive,  and  indifferent." 

Helen  sighed  deeply. 

"  She  was  happier  then,  Leonard  ;  but  I  cannot  see 
why  she  should  be  so  unhappy  now." 

They  talked  of  her,  wondered  about  her,  and  lamented 
the  change  in  her,  but  they  said  little  to  her.  She  had 
shown  them  plainly  how  much  she  disliked  all  allusion  to 
herself. 

Before  long,  Ethel  St.  Norman  found  herself  queen  of 
the  most  brilliant  society  in  London.  She  was  more 
sought  after,  more  admired,  than  any  other  woman  in  En- 
gland, and  her  chief  charm  was  that  she  seemed  so  utterly 
unconscious  of  her  beauty.  No  homage,  no  admiration,  no 
flattery,  brought  a  flush  to  her  face,  a  light  to  her  eyes. 
Her  superb  indifference,  her  calm,  proud  serenity,  her  cool 
reception  of  all  attention,  had  a  piquancy  all  their  own. 

Girls  who  blushed,  smiled,  talked — were  pleased  with 
pretty  attentions,  were  common  enough  ;  this  grand  young 
beauty,  who  would  have  received  the  homage  of  kings  as 
coolly  as  she  did  that  of  her  peers,  was  to  say  the  least  of 
it,  uncommon.  Men  strove  to  win  a  smile  from  the  perfect 
lips,  and  failed  ;  they  exerted  talent,  intellect,  wit,  all  to 
win  from  her  one  kind  look,  and  failed.  She  was  among 
them,  but  not  of  them  ;  she  seemed  like  one  apart  from  all 
others.  Some  of  the  noblest  and  most  distinguished  men 
in  England  sought  to  win  the  favor  of  the  proud,  peerless 
girl,  and  did  not  succeed.  The  colder  she  appeared,  the 
greater  was  their  admiration  ;  the  more  devoted  they  be- 
came, the  prouder  and  the  calmer  she  seemed. 

If  she  had  given  smile  for  smile — if  she  had  seemed 
proud  from  the  admiration  lavished  upon  her — if  she  had 
sought  in  the  least  degree  to  attract — it  might  have  been 
different.  As  it  was,  no  man  could  boast  of  one  mark  of 
favor — no  man  could  flatter  himself  that  Ethel  St.  Norman 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  !  7  x 

cared  for  him.  It  was  debated  whether  mere  animation  or  a 
dash  of  coquetry  would  improve  her.  The  decision  always 
was  that  she  could  not  be  more  winning  than  she  was  in 
her  calm,  cool  pride — that  she  could  not  be  more  charming 
than  she  was  in  her  proud,  serene  indifference. 

She  had  numberless  admirers,  and  would  have  had 
many  lovers,  but  that  she  shrank  with  pain  from  all  such. 
No  man  had  the  courage  to  make  love  to  her.  They  called 
her  Snow  Queen,  but  she  never  even  smiled  when  she 
heard  the  name.  She  knew  why  she  could  never  sun  her- 
self in  the  warm  light  of  kindness  or  even  of  love — she 
knew  why  no  man  must  win  a  smile  from  her  lips  or 
bring  a  sparkle  into  her  beautiful  eyes. 


j  7  2  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE, 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

LORD  ST.  NORMAN  was  growing  reconciled  to  the  fact 
that  his  daughter  would  never  be  her  own  bright  self 
again. 

"  I  have  heard  of  people."  he  said  one  day  to  his  wife, 
"  whose  features  and  appearance  generally  have  undergone 
a  change,  but  I  have  never  seen  any  one  whose  heart  and 
soul  have  altered  as  Ethel's  have.  She  has  not  one  gleam 
of  the  old,  pretty,  wilful,  defiant  pride  about  her ;  she 
used  to  be  all  sunshine,  all  gayety.  I  can  remember  that 
at  times  I  felt  frightened  lest  she  should  never  grow  sedate 
or  womanly." 

"  She  has  never  been  the  same  since  that  illness  at  St. 
Ina's,"  observed  Helen,  with  a  sigh  ;  "  at  times  I  wish  we 
had  never  gone  there." 

c<  It  was  a  strange  affair,  Helen,  that  capture  of  the 
bank-forger.  It  must  have  distressed  you.  Did  Ethel 
seem  to  think  much  about  it  ?  " 

"  No ;  she  was  taken  ill  on  the  same  day,  She  did  not 
show  any  interest  in  the  matter.  So  I  did  not  often  mention 
it." 

Lord  St.  Norman  and  his  wife  were  sitting  in  Helen's 
pretty  morning -room  at  Brookdale  House.  While  they  were 
speaking  Ethel  entered.  Her  father  looked  at  her  with 
a  smile. 

"  Speak  of  an  angel,"  he  said,  "  and  you  hear  the  rustle 
of  wings.  We  were  just  speaking  of  you,  Ethel." 

She  seemed  to  shrink  with  such  sensitive  pain  from  all 
mention  to  herself,  that  Helen  was  not  surprised  to  see 
her  go  up  to  Lord  St.  Norman,  and,  placing  one  hand  on 
his  shoulder  say, — 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE,  !  73 

"  Do  not  talk  about  me,  papa — it  grieves  me  when  you 
do." 

"  My  dearest  Ethel,"  said  her  father,  kissing  the  white 
hand  that  lay  on  his  shoulder,  "  how  strange  you  are  !  I 
shall  never  understand  you.  What  can  give  me  greater 
pleasure  than  to  speak  of  you  ?  " 

The  beautiful  face  grew  so  sad  and  wistful  that  Helen 
hastened  to  interfere. 

"  We  were  speaking  of  that  affair  at  St.  Ina's,  Ethel — 
you  remember  it,  I  suppose  ? — the  capture  of  that  unfor- 
tunate Mr.  Nugent." 

Her  face  grew  white,  and  the  shadow  of  a  deadly  fear 
darkened  her  eyes ;  her  lips  sprang  apart  with  a  faint  mur- 
mur that  died  away  upon  them  ;  and  then  the  need  for 
arousing  herself  occurred  to  her. 

"  I  remember  it,"  she  said,  slowly. 

"  What  a  terrible  shock  it  was  to  us  all ! "  continued 
Helen,  "  The  unhappy  man  had  made  Lady  Stafton  be- 
lieve that  he  was  a  friend  of  Lady  Delamaine's — we  saw  him 
two  or  three  times  a  day." 

Ethel  spoke  no  word.  Lord  St.  Norman  was  silent  for 
a  few  minutes  and  then  he  said, — 

"  Did  you  like  him,  Helen  ?  " 

"  He  was  well-bred,  agreeable,  and  pleasant,"  she  re- 
plied. "  I  liked  him  very  well.  I  should  never  have  guessed 
he  was  a  criminal." 

"  I  remember  thinking  the  story  a  very  sad  one,"  re- 
marked Lord  St.  Norman.  "  A  similar  occurrence  happen- 
ed in  Vienna,  but  the  man  there  was  married  ;  he  left  his 
wife  and  children  on  the  world  when  he  went  to  prison." 

"  Mr.  Nugent  was  not  married,"  said  Lady  St.  Norman, 
"  although  he  puzzled  us  all  by  speaking  of  his  wife.  He 
must  have  been  wandering  in  his  mind." 

"  Did  you  like  him,  Ethel  ?  "  asked  Lord  St.  Norman, 
wondering  again  at  the  strange  silence  of  his  daughter. 


!  7  4  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  with  a  grave  sadness  in  her  face  and 
voice ;  "  I  did  not  like  him." 

Helen  turned  quickly  to  her. 

"  Did  you  not  like  him  ?  O,  Ethel !  how  anxious  and 
nervous  I  used  to  be  over  you !  Do  you  remember  that  I 
warned  you  against  him  ? " 

She  remembered  it  so  well  that  she  could  have  cried 
aloud  in  her  anguish  and  sorrow. 

Lord  St.  Norman  smiled. 

"  I  think  your  zeal  outran  your  discretion  there,  Helen 
— Ethel,  who  is  too  proud  to  smile  upon  the  most  eligible 
men  in  London,  would  not  waste  a  look,  I  should  imagine, 
upon  one  who  was  not  eligible." 

He  stopped  suddenly,  for  the  beautiful  colorless  face 
wore  such  an  expression  of  pain  that  he  was  startled  by  it ; 
he  remembered  what  his  wife  had  said,  that  nothing  ever 
distressed  Ethel  so  greatly  as  talking  to  her  about  herself. 
Thinking  to  distract  her  thoughts,  he  asked, — 

"Why  did  you  not  like  him,  Ethel — this  unfortunate 
man  ? " 

She  was  silent  for  some  seconds,  and  then  she  replied,— 

"  I  liked  him  at  first,  papa,  but  afterward  I  fancied  that 
he  was  not  true — that  there  was  something  insincere  about 
him." 

Even  as  she  spoke  she  seemed  to  hear  Laurie  Carring- 
ton's  voice  with  its  tone  of  passionate  devotion — "  I  love 
you  so — I  love  you  so  dearly,  my  beautiful  queen."  He 
might  have  been  false  in  everything  else,  but  he  was  true 
in  this,  his  great,  deep,  passionate  love  for  her.  Forger, 
thief,  criminal,  reckless  gambler,  dishonorable  man  he 
might  be,  yet  he  loved  her  with  truth,  depth,  and  purity, 
and  she  knew  it. 

She  had  answered  all  the  questions  Lord  St.  Norman 
asked,  but  the  effort  to  control  herself  had  been  great— « 
her  limbs  trembled,  her  hands  shook. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  x  7  5 

"I  must  leave  them,"  she  thought  to  herself,  "or  they 
will  discover  my  secret." 

That  was  her  one  dread — the  dread  that  haunted  hei 
by  night  and  by  day,  that  stood  like  a  grim,  gaunt  skeleton 
by  her  side,  that  darkened  the  last  lingering  brightness 
from  her  life. 

"  How  do  people  live,"  the  unhappy  girl  would  ask 
herself,  "year  after  year,  with  a  secret  like  mine  ?  How 
do  they  bear  the  dread,  the  suspense,  the  constant  haunt- 
ing fear  ?  But  I  would  rather  die  any  death  than  that  my 
terrible  secret  should  be  known." 

There  were  times  when  she  could  hardly  realize  her 
position — when  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  must  have  been  in 
some  long,  terrible  dream.  She  was  only  eighteen,  young 
and  beautiful,  a  wealthy  heiress,  one  of  the  most  admired 
beauties  of  the  day,  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  noble 
peers  of  England,  and  yet  she  had  been  privately  married 
to  a  felon.  She  wrung  her  hands  in  silent  dismay  as  she 
thought  of  it  and  a  great  dread  cloud  of  hopelessness  came 
over  her.  Of  what  use  was  her  life  ?  She  could  not  enjoy 
it.  Of  what  use  were  all  these  richest  gifts  of  Providence  ? 
She  was  bound  in  heaviest  chains,  and  nothing  could  free 
her.  She  often  wondered  if  the  law  could  free  her.  She 
was  married  to  a  man  with  a  false  name,  and  she  would 
have  given  much  to  know  whether  that  made  her  marriage 
illegal ;  but  she  never  dared  to  ask  the  question — it  seemed 
to  her  that,  if  she  did  so,  every  one  would  at  once  suspect. 
Even  if  the  law  could  free  her,  she  dared  not  apply  to  it  ; 
she  could  not  make  that  wretched  story  known.  Married 
at  eighteen,  in  secrecy  and  haste — married  less  for  love 
than  from  desire  of  revenge — who  would  believe  her  ?  Who 
would  ever  look  kindly  at  her  again  ?  She  could  not  bring 
such  unutterable  shame  and  disgrace  on  her  proud,  indul- 
gent father  ;  there  was  no  resource  but  to  bear  her  lot  with 
as  much  patience  as  she  could. 


!  7  6  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE . 

"  After  all,"  she  would  say  to  herself,  "  it  is  my  own 
fault ;  I  was  so  proud,  so  wilful,  so  defiant.  I  thought  of 
nothing  but  revenge  on  the  woman  whose  kindness  and 
gentleness  have  never  yet  failed  me.  It  is  my  own  fault — 
but  surely  no  sin  was  ever  so  terribly  punished.  People 
have  committed  crimes  a  thousand  times  greater  than  mine? 
yet  have  not  been  punished  one-half  so  hardly." 

Even  to  herself  she  never  excused  herself.  "  It  was 
all  my  own  fault,"  she  would  repeat.  "  I  have  no  one  to 
blame  but  myself." 

She  looked  sometimes  in  the  papers,  in  the  vain,  vague 
hope  that  there  might  be  some  news  of  her  husband — that 
she  might  discover  where  he  was  undergoing  his  punish- 
ment— that  she  might  know  whether  he  was  living  or  dead. 
Perhaps  one  of  the  hardest  trials  she  had  to  bear  was  that 
a  veil  of  oblivion  had  fallen  over  him.  Since  she  parted 
with  him  at  the  gate  leading  to  the  wood  at  St.  Ina's  she 
had  heard  no  word  from  him — since  he  covered  her  face 
and  her  hands  with  parting,  passionate  kisses,  she  had 
never  seen  him.  If  she  could  have  heard  that  he  was 
living,  it  would  have  been  some  relief  from  the  terrible 
anxiety  that  weighed  upon  her.  The  oblivion  that  seemed 
to  have  fallen  over  him,  and  over  everything  connected 
with  him,  had  its  own  terrors  for  her. 

Looking  back,  she  could  not  imagine  how  she  had  mis- 
taken her  feeling  of  liking  for  love.  That  was  the  greatest 
mystery  to  her — how  could  she  ever,  even  in  her  wildest 
moments,  have  even  fancied  that  slight  liking  to  be  love  ? 

"  I  was  a  foolish,  ignorant  girl,"  she  would  say  to  her. 
self.  "  But,  ah,  me  !  how  terribly  I  am  punished  for  my 
sins." 

If  she  could  have  forgotten  her  trouble  for  one  half 
hour,  it  would  have  been  the  greatest  relief  to  her  ;  but  in 
her  dreams  by  night  and  her  thoughts  by  day,  it  was  ever 
present.  No  matter  how  bright  the  scenes  in  which  she 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  !  7  7 

moved,  no  matter  how  great  the  magnificence  that  sur- 
rounded her,  the  one  thought  was  ever  in  her  mind, — 

"  I  have  no  right  to  be  here — I  have  no  right  to  be 
here — I  have  no  place  here — for  I  am  the  wife  of  a  felon." 

The  beautiful  face  had  not  lost  its  exquisite  loveliness 
— the  sorrow  that  always  seemed  to  cloud  it  softened  it ;  the 
proud,  serene  calm  that  never  changed  into  brightness, 
suited  the  noble  features.  Those  who  saw  Ethel  could 
never  forget  her ;  from  a  crowd  of  a  thousand  faces,  hers, 
with  its  ideal  brow,  its  violet  eyes,  and  sad,  sweet  mouth, 
stood  out  quite  clear  and  distinct.  That  first  season  one  of 
the  most  eminent  artists  in  London  asked  permission  to 
paint  her  portrait.  Lord  St.  Norman  was  quite  willing, 
but  she  objected.  In  vain  her  father  tried  to  discover 
why ;  how  little  he  thought  that  this  proud,  peerless  daugh- 
ter of  his  dreaded  lest  people,  looking  at  her  pictured  face, 
should  say,  in  after  years  :  "  I  saw  her  portrait  once  ;  she 
was  the  wife  of  a  dishonorable  man — a  common  forger  ! " 


1 78  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


CHAPTER  XXVIIL 

THAT  same  season  a  new  star  appeared  on  the  fashion- 
able horizon.  The  young  Duke  of  Southmead,  who  had 
been  abroad  since  he  attained  his  majority,  returned  to 
England,  and  became  the  "observed  of  all  observers." 
There  was  no  fair  gift  of  earth's  that  had  not  been  lavished 
upon  him  ;  he  was  young,  rich,  and  handsome,  not  more 
than  twenty-five  years  of  age,  and  it  was  generally  believed 
that  he  was  one  of  the  wealthiest  men  in  England.  He 
was  the  fortunate  possessor  of  three  magnificent  estates 
in  England — Burlinghame  Abbey,  Lanville  Court,  and 
Glaston  Hall  ;  Glenalan  Towers  and  Heatherbrae  in  Scot- 
land also  belonged  to  him  ;  and  he  had  an  accumulation 
of  money  in  funds,  which  would  have  made  any  ordinary 
man  rich.  To  add  to  his  unbounded  wealth,  coal  had  been 
discovered  on  one  of  his  English  estates,  which  had  more 
than  trebled  its  value. 

The  Duke  of  Southmead  was  a  handsome  man  ;  he 
had  a  fair  frank  Saxon  face,  laughing  blue  eyes,  a  head 
covered  with  fair  clustering  hair,  and  a  beautiful  mouth. 
His  figure  was  tall  ;  he  had  broad  shoulders,  a  dignified, 
easy  carriage,  a  charm  of  grace  and  manner  which  alone 
would  have  made  him  popular.  His  Grace  of  Southmead 
was  clever,  too  ;  he  was  blessed  with  a  clear  intellect, 
sound  common  sense,  and  good  judgment  ;  he  was  elo- 
quent of  speech,  with  a  flow  of  original  thoughts  expressed 
in  elegant  language.  He  was  a  truthful,  honorable  Eng- 
lish gentleman,  than  which  no  higher  praise  could  be  give? 
to  him. 

It  was  well  known  that  the  Duke  of  Southmead  was 


REPENTED  AT  LEISURE.  jyg 

looking  for  a  wife  ;  he  had  been  heard  more  than  once  to 
say  that  the  only  gift  wanting  to  him  was  that  of  a  fair  and 
loving  wife. 

When  the  fact  became  known  Belgravian  mothers  looked 
hopeful.  Who  could  wish  for  any  daughter  a  fairer  lot  in 
life  than  to  be  Duchess  of  Southrnead  ?  Money,  jewels, 
magnificence  of  every  kind  would  be  her  portion. 

She  the  fortunate  one  would  be  envied  by  all  other 
women.  No  man  was  more  popular  than  this  young  duke  ; 
it  was  not  altogether  because  of  his  vast  wealth — the  hand- 
some face  and  graceful,  chivalrous  manner  had  something 
to  do  with  it.  Ladies  declared  that  no  man  had  a  more 
beautiful  smile. 

Fair  young  debutantes  were  almost  timid  in  his  presence, 
for  they  had  been  told  what  a  great  prize  was  to  be  won  in 
the  matrimonial  market.  Anxious  mothers  had  suggested 
that  they  should  wear  blue.  His  grace  had  been  heard  to 
say  that  blue  was  his  favorite  color.  They  had  been  told 
to  spare  no  pains  over  their  singing,  for  his  grace  was  fond 
of  music. 

When  he  entered  a  room  there  was  a  thrill  of  excite- 
ment. His  taste  was  really  good,  and  he  was  a  passionate 
admirer  of  beauty.  Happy  the  girl  whom  he  honored  with 
his  attentions — she  was  looked  upon  with  something  like 
envy  by  her  companions.  But  the  young  duke  was  very 
cautious — he  never  went  beyond  the  merest  admiration. 
He  had  seen  the  loveliest  women  in  Europe,  but  he  had 
not  fallen  in  love  with  any  one  of  them.  He  had  enjoyed 
many  flirtations — he  had  been  like  a  butterfly,  roaming 
from  flower  to  flower ;  but  he  had  not  seen  the  woman 
whom  he  cared  to  make  Duchess  of  Southrnead. 

At  Lady  Crane's  fancy  ball  he  met  Ethel  St.  Norman, 
and  for  the  first  time  fell  deeply  in  love.  Her  beautiful 
face,  with  its  proud,  sad,  sweet  mouth,  and  dreamy,  lovely 
eyes,  charmed  him ;  still  more,  he  was  irresistibly  captivated 


i8o  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

by  her  manner.  Fair  faces,  as  a  rule,  smiled  upon  him, 
and  bright  eyes  grew  brighter  for  his  coming.  He  was 
accustomed  to  see  young  girls  look  flattered  by  his 
notice,  while  others  seemed  anxious  to  attract  it ;  but  he 
was  accustomed  to  homage  und  deference — but  at  Ethel's 
hands  he  met  simply  with  indifference. 

She  was  standing  alone  when  he  first  saw  her,  and  he 
thought  her  attitude  one  of  marvellous  grace.  She  had  im- 
plored Lord  St.  Norman  to  allow  her  to  refuse  this  invita- 
tion, but  he  would  not  hear  of  it. 

"  You  have  been  to  a  great  variety  of  entertainments, 
Ethel,"  he  said,  "  but  you  have  never  been  to  a  fancy  ball. 
You  must  go  my  dear.  I  hear  that  the  Prince  and  Princess 
of  Holstadt  and  the  young  Duke  of  Southmead  are  to  be 
present. 

She  turned  away,  sick  at  heart.  Her  place  was  not 
with  princes — she  who  had  married  in  such  secrecy  and 
such  haste — she  who  was  the  wife  of  a  felon.  Lord  St. 
Norman  had  insisted  that  she  should  choose  some  fancy 
costume.  He  had  suggested  many — those  of  queens, 
heroines,  and  beauties — but  she  would  wear  none  of  them. 

It  was  Helen  who,  with  her  quick  instinct,  saw  that 
Ethel  shrank  from  display. 

"  Go  as  '  Night/  "  she  suggested,  "  that  will  require 
only  a  plain  dress  of  silver  and  black/'  to  which  Ethel 
consented. 

But  when  she  saw  herself  in  the  tall  mirror,  she  thought 
that  no  costume  could  have  heightened  her  loveliness  more 
marvellously ;  and  Lord  St.  Norman  smiled  as  he  thought 
how  well  his  wife  had  chosen. 

The  dress  of  black  net  was  dotted  with  silver  stars — 
the  dark,  dusky  folds  fell  in  the  most  artistic  fashion. 
Ethel's  rich  brown  hair  lay  in  clustering  masses  on  her 
white,  graceful  neck ;  it  was  wreathed  with  small  silver 
Stars.  The  beautiful  face  seemed  to  rise  from  the  dark 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  I  g  I 

dress  like  some  lovely  flower  from  its  stem  ;  the  white  neck, 
the  rounded  arms  and  beautiful  shoulders  had  never  looked 
more  fair  than  they  did  now,  shining  from  the  cloud  of 
black.  Lord  St.  Norman  smiled  when  he  saw  her. 

"  If  you  did  not  wish  to  attract  notice,  Ethel "  he  said, 
"  you  should  have  chosen  a  different  costume. "  To  himself 
he  added  that,  let  her  have  chosen  what  she  might,  she 
would  still  be  more  beautiful  than  any  one  else. 

The  splendor  of  the  scene  that  soon  afterward  met  her 
eyes  might  have  delighted  her  if  she  could  for  one  moment 
have  forgotten  her  terrible  secret,  her  terrible  care.  It 
went  with  her,  and,  while  the  noblest  and  greatest  in 
the  land  bowed  before  her,  it  shadowed  her,  this  secret 
that  was  slowly  and  surely  eating  her  heart  away. 

Lady  Crane's  rooms  were  filled  with  a  most  brilliant 
crowd.  The  elite  of  the  fashionable  world  were  present. 
There  was  a  most  beautiful  variety  of  costumes — those  of 
kings,  queens,  fairies,  friars,  peasants,  heroines  of  story  and 
of  song — but  all  paled  before  that  of  the  girl  who  had 
chosen  to  appear  as  "  Night." 

She  was  soon  surrounded  ;  that  lovely  face  of  hers  had 
a  terrible  influence  over  men.  There  was  heart-burning 
and  jealousy.  More  than  one  present  would  have  given 
much  for  one  smile  from  her  lips. 

She  danced  first  with  Prince  Holstadt.  When  he  had 
left  her  she  stood  for  some  minutes  talking  to  Helen  •  and 
it  was  then  the  Duke  of  Southmead  saw  her.  She  was 
standing  by  the  scarlet  blossoms  of  one  of  the  rare  plants 
with  which  the  ballroom  was  half  filled,  her  dark  dress, 
with  its  silver  stars,  falling  in  graceful  folds  around  her 
tall,  graceful  figure.  Her  lovely  face  was  bent  over  the 
scarlet  flowers.  He  looked  at  her  in  wonder,  and  as  he 
looked  at  her  his  heart  went  out  to  her. 

He  was  not  accustomed  to  wait  when  he  wished  for 
anything,  and  he  said  to  himself  that  he  must  gain  an  in- 


!  82  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

troduction  to  the  beautiful  girl,  that  the  sweet  eyes  must 
smile  on  him,  the  fair  face  brighten  for  him.  He  went  at 
once  to  Lady  Crane. 

"  Who  is  that  tall,  beautiful  girl  with  the  sad,  sweet 
face  ?  "  he  asked. 

Lady  Crane  looked  up  with  a  smile. 

"  There  are  so  many  tall,  beautiful  girls,"  she  replied, 
laughingly.  "  Which  one  does  your  grace  mean  ?  " 

"  I  see  none  like  her  standing  there.  Do  you  see, 
Lady  Crane,  she  is  near  the  crimson  bank  of  flowers  ? 
Her  dress  is  dark,  with  silver  stars/' 

Lady  Crane  looked  in  the  direction  indicated,  and  then 
she  smiled. 

"  Is  it  possible,"  she  asked,  "  that  you  do  not  know  Miss 
St.  Norman  ?  I  should  have  imagined  every  one  in  Lon- 
don knew  her.  She  is  the  beauty  of  the  season." 

"I  have  heard  of  her,"  said  the  young  Duke,  slowly; 
"but  I  never  imagined  she  was  one  half  so  lovely.  Will 
you  introduce  me,  Lady  Crane  ?  " 

Ethel  hardly  raised  her  eyes  when — the  observed  of  all 
observers — the  young  duke  stood  before  her.  He  was 
piqued  by  her  indifference,  and  vowed  to  himself  that  it 
should  all  be  dispelled  before  the  warmth  of  his  love  as  a 
mist  by  the  heat  of  the  sun.  As  she  walked  away,  leaving 
them  together,  Lady  Crane  said  to  herself, — 

"  That  would  be  a  most  suitable  match  ;  he  is  the  hand- 
somest man  and  she  is  the  loveliest  girl  in  London.  I 
should  always  have  the  credit  of  having  brought  it  about." 

More  than  one  in  the  ballroom  thought  as  did  Lady 
Crane — that  his  Grace  of  Southmead  and  the  proud,  calm, 
beautiful  Ethel  St.  Norman  were  perfectly  matched. 

No  such  idea  occurred  to  Ethel  herself.  She  gave  no 
sign  of  being  pleased  because  the  young  duke  was  evident- 
ly delighted  with  her;  on  the  contrary,  as  he  paid  her  com 
pliment,  after  compliment;  she  said  to  herself, — 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  1 83 

"  What  would  he  think  of  me  if  he  knew  that  I  was  the 
wife  of  a  convicted  forger  ?  " 

He  asked  her  to  dance,  but  she  declined,  so  surpris- 
ing him  in  a  manner  that  he  had  never  before  experienced. 
To  refuse  to  dance  with  him  for  whom  other  young  ladies 
would  gladly  have  given  up  their  favorite  partners  !  That  re- 
fusal increased  his  liking  for  her  a  thousand-fold.  If  she 
had  appeared,  like  others,  flattered  by  his  attentions,  pleased 
to  secure  his  notice,  he  would,  in  all  probability,  have 
thought  no  more  of  her ;  but  the  beautiful  face  was  never 
turned  to  his,  the  lovely  eyes  were  only  once  raised,  and 
then  the  white  lids  drooped  over  them,  and  their  bright 
depths  were  veiled  from  him.  He  was  piqued  and  reso- 
lute. 

"  Haughty,  proud,  and  beautiful,  she  shall  love  me  yet," 
he  said  to  himself ;  and  he  devoted  himself  almost  exclu- 
sively to  her. 

Mothers  and  chaperons  looked  at  him  in  despair,  as 
though  they  would  have  said,  "  There  is  no  more  hope — 
she  has  taken  him  captive." 

Then  men  looked  on  in  utter  wonder.  It  was  strange 
to  see  the  young  duke  in  earnest  at  last.  That  he  was  in 
earnest  was  plainly  to  be  seen.  The  dreamy,  beautiful 
music  of  a  German  waltz  floated  round. 

"  You  will  not  refuse  me,  Miss  St.  Norman  ? "  he  said. 
"  The  music  is  so  beautiful,  one  feels  compelled  to  dance." 

She  never  looked  at  him,  but  the  hands  that  were 
touching  the  scarlet  flowers  trembled  slightly.  She  did 
refuse  again,  and  again  a  feeling  of  surprise  took  posses- 
sion of  him. 

"  Do   you  not  like   dancing,    Miss  St.   Norman  ? "   he 
asked. 

Yes — she  liked  it,  but  just  then  she  did  not  feel  inclined 
for  it. 

This  was  something  new  for  his  grace,  who  had  always 


1 84  REPENTED  AT  LEISURE. 

hitherto  found  that  the  inclinations  of  young  ladies  led 
them  to  dance  with  him. 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  talk  to  you,  then,"  he  begged, 
"  if  you  prefer  not  to  dance  ?  " 

"  If  it  pleases  you,"  she  replied,  indifferently. 

But  she  did  not  make  room  for  him  by  her  side,  as 
many  would  have  done,  and  try  to  please  him.  He  stood 
before  her  deferentially,  as  though  she  were  a  queen.  He 
devoted  himself  to  her.  '  But,  when  the  evening  had  ended 
and  he  was  trying  to  buoy  himself  up*with  some  little  hope 
of  success,  he  could  not  remember  one  smile,  one  kind 
word,  one  glance  from  the  beautiful  eyes  ;  he  had  not  one 
single  favor  on  which  to  rest  his  hopes. 

Having  waited  patiently  a  whole  hour  for  the  purpose, 
he  escorted  Ethel  to  her  carnage.  He  had  not  won  one 
favor  from  her,  but  as  he  bade  her  good-night,  his  eyes  fell 
on  the  flowers  she  carried. 

"  Miss  St.  Norman,"  he  said,  "will  you  give  me  those 
flowers  ? " 

Then  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face,  slowly,  proudly, 
coldly. 

"  My  flowers  ?  "  she  returned.  "  Why  should  you  care 
for  them  ?  They  are  dead." 

"Living  or  dead,  I  care  not,"  he  said.  "  In  my  humble 
opinion  they  will  not  die  after  having  been  in  your  hands 
all  the  evening  ;  that  ought  to  make  them  live." 

"  I  have  never  heard  of  immortality  conferred  upon 
flowers,"  she  observed. 

The  implied  compliment,  he  saw  plainly,  was  lost  upon 
her,  and  he  liked  her  still  more  from  her  want  of  vanity. 

"  Give  me  only  one  from  your  bouquet,"  he  said  earnestly 
"  I  will  ask  no  more." 

"  Why  do  you  desire  it  ? "  inquired  Ethel. 

"  Because  it  is  yours,"  he  replied  with  passion,  "  and 
because  you  have  held  it.  Give  it  to  me  to  remind  me  of 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  I  g  5 

to-night.     I  shall  always  hold  my  truest  and  best  life  as 
having  begun  from  to-night." 

She  glanced  at  him,  saw  the  light  on  his  face,  heard 
the  deep,  earnest  music  of  his  voice,  and  understood  him. 

"  Will  you  grant  my  prayer  "  he  pursued.  "  Will  you 
give  me  one  flower,  Miss  St.  Norman  ?  " 

"  Not  one,"  she  declined,  gravely. 

There  came  into  her  heart  something  like  hatred  of 
love  and  lovers — of  men,  because  a  man  had  so  cruelly 
betrayed  her.  A  passionate  indignation  against  the  whole 
race  seized  her.  The  young  duke's  face  fell  as  he  heard 
her  words. 

"  You  are  very  unkind  to  me,  Miss  St.  Norman,"  he 
said. 

"  It  is  not  in  my  power  to  be  kind  or  unkind  to  your 
grace,,'  she  rejoined,  haughtily. 

It  was  a  new  experience  to  the  Duke  of  Southmead  ; 
in  all  his  life  no  one  had  denied  him  a  favor  or  refused  to 
comply  with  one  of  his  requests.  He  felt  a  singular  re- 
spect for  the  fearless  young  girl  who  now  did  so. 

As  Lord  St.  Norman  and  his  wife  and  his  daughter 
drove  home,  Ethel  thought  of  the  duke. 

"  Surely  he  is  not  going  to  pretend  that  he  loves  me/' 
she  said  to  herself.  "  If  he  knew — if  he  knew  all — instead 
of  loving,  he  would  hate  me." 

When  they  reached  home,  Lady  St.  Norman  was  struck 
with  the  girl's  white  face. 

"You  are  tired,  Ethel,"  she  said.  "Will  you  come  in- 
to my  boudoir  ?  We  will  have  a  cup  of  coffee  there.  I  do 
not  like  to  see  you  looking  so  tired.  Leonard  will  you 
join  us  ?" 

Lord  St.  Norman  professed  himself  "only  too  delighted;" 
and  Helen,  whose  special  gift  seemed  to  be  the  power  of 
making  every  one  comfortable,  made  Ethel  rest  on  a  couch 
while  she  found  the  cosiest  chair  for  her  husband. 


!  86  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  Now  let  us  talk  over  the  ball,"  she  said  ;  "  I  always 
think  that  that  is  the  pleasantest  thing  about  an  entertain- 
ment— talking  of  it  afterward.  What  did  you  think  of  the 
costumes,  Leonard  ? " 

"  I  admired  them  all,"  he  replied,  and  then  he  inquired, 
"  Helen,  did  you  see  Sir  Oscar  Charlcote  ?  With  all  due 
deference  to  all  fair  ladies,  I  considered  him  the  most  in- 
teresting character  present." 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Helen,  briefly. 

"  Because  of  his  great  personal  bravery — he  is  literally 
as  brave  as  a  lion.  Did  you  never  hear  of  him,  Helen,  nor 
you,  Ethel  ? " 

No,  they  had  not  heard  of  him  ;  so  Lord  St.  Norman 
continued, — 

"  I  have  longed  to  see  him  for  years.  Now  that  my 
desire  has  been  gratified,  I  find  him  to  be  what  he  has  been 
represented — as  brave  as  a  lion,  yet  as  gentle  as  a  child  ; 
fearless,  yet  most  modest ;  free  from  the  least  taint  of  van- 
ity, frank,  kind — ah  !  well,  I  need  not  dwell  upon  his 
character.  I  am  difficult  to  please,  but  Oscar  Charlcote  is 
my  true  ideal  of  a  real  hero.  I  can  tell  you  one  story  of 
him." 

Ethel  raised  her  eyes  to  her  father's  face,  and  he  saw 
that  she  looked  interested. 

"  There  were  two  brothers — Sir  Ralph  Charlcote  and 
his  younger  brother,  Oscar.  They  were  both  in  the  army. 
Sir  Ralph  was  major,  and  Oscar  an  ensign.  They  were  in 
the  same  regiment,  and  that  regiment  was  serving  in  India. 
Sir  Ralph  was  many  years  older  than  his  brother.  He  was 
married,  and  had  his  wife  and  three  children  with  him.  I 
knew  Lady  Charlcote — she  was  a  tender-hearted,  loving 
gentlewoman,  with  a  fair,  high-bred  face  and  a  graceful 
manner.  Sir  Ralph  held  some  important  military  post  in 
the  hills,  and  when  a  rebellion  broke  out  among  one  of  the 
tribes  whom  he  had  to  hold  in  check,  he,  with  his  wife,  and 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  jgy 

three  young  children,  occupied  a  large  stone  residence  that 
had  been  erected  for  one  of  the  native  rulers.  His  brother 
Oscar  rode  over  one  day  to  consult  with  him  on  the  aspect 
of  affairs,  and  that  very  day  the  Charlcotes'  place  was  sur- 
rounded, and  its  inhabitants  all  taken  by  surprise.  They 
resisted  for  a  time,  but  resistance  was  quite  useless — their 
enemies  were  a  hundred  to  one  against  them.  Still,  they 
fought  for  some  hours.  At  last  the  natives  forced  an  en- 
trance into  the  house.  The  English  servants  were  tortured 
and  killed  ;  Sir  Ralph,  his  wife — poor,  gentle  Lady  Charl- 
cote — their  little  children,  and  Oscar  were  brought  out  into 
the  courtyard — there  to  suffer  a  thousand  deaths  in  one. 
The  two  hapless  officers  were  bound  fast  in  chairs,  and  the 
unhappy  father  was  compelled  to  look  on  while  his  child- 
ren were  barbarously  slaughtered.  I  will  not  tell  you  the 
details  of  Lady  Charlcote's  fate.  When  Sir  Ralph  could 
bear  it  no  longer,  he  turned  to  his  brother  with  a  loud  de- 
spairing cry, — 

"  '  Oscar,  Oscar,  what  shall  I  do  ? ' 

"  t  Set  your  teeth  and  die  hard/  the  young  ensign  re- 
plied— words  that  became  a  proverb  in  his  regiment.  Even 
as  they  were  spoken,  a  detachment  of  men  came  to  their 
rescue.  It  was  too  late  to  save  the  unhappy  lady,  the  little 
children,  or  even  Sir  Ralph  ;  but  Oscar  was  rescued.  His 
health  failed  him,  and,  sorely  against  his  will,  he  was  com- 
pelled to  leave  the  army.  He  became  Sir  Oscar  Charlcote 
of  Weston  Royal.  I  never  see  suffering  in  any  shape,  but 
I  think  of  his  words — '  Set  your  teeth  and  die  hard.'  " 

As  she  listened,  a  strange  light  came  over  Ethel's  beau- 
tiful face.  She  took  the  words  home  to  her  heart  and  pon- 
dered them.  If  a  man  could  do  that  for  the  endurance  of 
physical  pain,  surely  she,  who  had  suffered  almost  the  ex- 
tremity of  mental  anguish,  could  do  the  same. 

"  And  I  will  do  it,"  she  said  to  herself,  with  proud  re- 
solve. "  No  murmur  against  my  lot  shall  escape  my  lips — no 


1 88  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

words  of  regret,  I  will  do  as  the  young  soldier  advised — 
set  my  teeth  and  die  hard." 

From  that  day  a  change  came  over  Ethel.  There  was 
no  murmuring,  no  more  despair.  She  began  to  look  her 
life  in  the  face.  She  had  blighted  and  ruined  it  at  the 
very  outset ;  but  of  what  remained  she  would  make  the 
best.  She  would  "die  hard;"  she  would  bear  her  pain 
and  her  sorrow  in  such  a  way  that  they  would  be  hidden 
from  all  human  eyes  ;  she  would  endure  without  repining  ; 
that  which  a  man  could  do  in  the  extremity  of  physical  pain 
she  might  do  in  the  extreme  of  mental  anguish.  The  young 
soldier's  words  and  the  lesson  they  inculcated  took  hold  of 
her ;  in  great  measure  they  renewed  and  reinvigorated  the 
heart  and  mind  fast  sinking  into  despair.  They  were  al- 
ways present  to  her ;  when  her  heart  was  sinking,  her 
courage  failing,  her  pride  yielding,  and  she  felt  ready  to 
die  in  her  sorrow,  they  raised  and  reanimated  her — they 
seemed  to  become  part  of  herself.  It  was  only  natural, 
under  the  circumstances,  that  she  should  wonder  what  he 
was  like — that  her  mind  should  dwell  in  some  measure 
upon  him. 

The  beauty  and  grandeur  of  endurance  and  courage 
seemed  to  grow  clearer.  All  people  sinned — some  in 
reckless  wickedness,  others,  like  herself,  through  the  igno- 
rance of  youth,  but  every  one  had  not  the  fortitude  and 
patience  to  endure  the  punishment  of  their  sin. 

A  new  expression  seemed  to  come  to  the  beautiful  face 
— one  of  high  and  noble  resolve,  and  of  brave,  bright  en- 
durance. Ethel  seemed  to  recover  some  of  the  high  spirits 
and  animation  that  had  once  distinguished  her,  and  Lord 
St.  Norman  was  delighted  with  the  change.  He  thought  she 
would  in  time  be  her  own  self  again.  He  little  dreamed  that 
the  improvement,  slight  as  it  was,  was  caused  by  the  brave 
resolve  to  bear  in  patience  the  blight  and  ruin  of  her  life. 

In  the  meanwhile,  to  his  own  intense  surprise,  the  young 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  !  39 

Duke  of  Southmead  found  himself,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  deeply  in  love.  He  soon  became  like  a  shadow  of  the 
beautiful  Miss  St.  Norman.  He  went  wherever  she  went. 
If  Ethel  rode  or  drove,  she  was  sure  to  meet  him  ;  if  she 
went  to  a  dinner,  ball,  soiree,  no  matter  what,  he  was  sure  to 
be  among  the  company  present. 

Belgravian  mothers  and  chaperons  had  grown  accus- 
tomed to  the  turn  which  matters  had  taken ;  they  had  given 
up  all  hopes  of  the  great  prize — Miss  St.  Norman  had  won 
it.  And  it  was  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  she  had  won 
it,  for  she  was  one  of  the  wealthiest  and  loveliest  girls  of 
the  season.  It  was  first  whispered,  and  then  rumor  grew 
bolder  and  spoke  aloud,  that  the  Duke  of  Southmead  had 
fallen  in  love  with  the  beautiful  Miss  St.  Norman.  Every 
one  pronounced  it  a  most  suitable  and  excellent  match 
Both  had  beauty,  both  had  high  birth,  both  were  possessed 
of  great  wealth.  So  the  world  agreed  that  it  was  a  most 
excellent  match,  fitting  in  every  way,  and  that  nothing  could 
be  better. 

For  some  time  Ethel  found  herself  obliged  to  be  patient. 
She  could  not  refuse  the  young  duke  before  he  had  made 
her  an  offer ;  she  could  not  speak  to  him  on  the  subject 
before  he  had  spoken  to  her.  But  she  did  what  lay  in  her 
power.  He  could  not  boast  of  word,  or  look,  or  smile  that 
was  kinder  than  what  she  gave  to  others.  She  treated  him 
with  indifference  ;  she  received  him  with  the  coolest  non- 
chalance. But  the  colder  her  indifference,  the  deeper  grew 
his  love. 

She  began  to  feel  sorry  for  him.  He  might  have  his 
little  faults  of  vanity  and  conceit.  Placed  as  he  was,  it  was 
not  to  be  wondered  at.  He  had  known  nothing  but  flattery. 
He  might  be  vain,  but  there  was  no  doubt  of  one  thing — 
he  loved  her  with  all  the  strength  of  his  soul.  She  began 
to  pity  him,  knowing  that,  even  had  no  impediment  existed 
she  could  never  have  loved  him.  She  felt  sorry  that  he, 


190 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


should  have  concentrated  all  his  hopes  on  her.  He  was 
not  the  kind  of  man  she  could  make  a  hero  of ;  even  his 
style  of  beauty  was  not  a  style  she  admired. 

He  would  not  take  any  of  the  very  plain  hints  that  she 
gave  him — he  put  them  aside — he  would  not  believe  but 
that  he  should  win  her  eventually.  So,  for  some  time  he 
became  her  shadow — he  sunned  himself  in  the  light  of  her 
most  fair  and  gracious  presence,  believing  that  his  hopes 
must  be  realized  at  last. 

One  morning  Lord  St  Norman  seemed  unusually  pleased 
with  a  letter  that  he  had  received.  He  read  it  several 
times  with  a  peculiarly  bright  and  happy  smile  ;  and  then, 
looking  at  his  daughter,  he  said, — 

"  Ethel,  I  should  like  to  speak  to  you.  This  letter  con- 
cerns you.  Will  you  come  into  my  study  after  breakfast  ? " 

Neither  interest  nor  wonder  was  excited  within  her  at 
her  father's  words — no  letter  could  contain  news  of  para- 
mount importance  to  her. 

After  a  short  interval  she  followed  Lord  St.  Norman 
into  his  study,  and  there  she  found  her  father  standing  by 
the  table,  smiling  again  at  the  letter  he  held  in  his  hand. 

"  Ethel,"  he  said,  "  sit  down.  I  am  very  pleased,  my 
dear.  I  think  I  may  safely  say  this  is  the  happiest  day  of 
my  life." 

Her  beautiful  face  brightened. 

"  If  you  could  have  what  I  wish  for  you,  papa,  all  your 
days  would  be  happy." 

Lord  St.  Norman  continued, — 

"  You  know  how  dearly  I  have  always  loved  you,  Ethel 
— how  proud  I  have  always  been  of  you.  My  love  could 
desire  no  better  fate  than  this  in  store  for  you.  My  pride 
could  ask  no  higher  destiny." 

He  did  not  see  the  shadow  that  fell  over  her  face. 

"  Your  future  has  always  been  a  subject  of  anxiety  to 
me,"  he  pursued ;  "  not  in  respect  of  money — I  have  known 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  !9! 

of  late  years  that  you  would  have  a  sufficiency  of  that — 
but  as  regards  whom  you  would  love,  and  whom  you 
would  marry.  You  have  all  the  Gordon  sensitiveness  and 
Gordon  pride — and  I  know  how  much  proud,  sensitive 
people  suffer.  You  would  have  been  one  of  the  most 
miserable  women  living  if  you  had  been  unfortunate  in 
your  love." 

Her  lips  quivered — the  tears  rose  to  his  eyes,  but  she 
repressed  them,  remembering  Sir  Oscar's  words.  No 
murmur  should  escape  her — no  regret  because  of  her 
mournful,  blighted  life. 

"  Now,"  Lord  St.  Norman  went  on,  "  I  am  more  than 
happy — I  am  quite  content.  This  letter  that  I  hold  in  my 
hand  is  from  the  Duke  of  Southmead.  He  asks  my  per- 
mission to  make  you  his  wife,  and  that  permission  I  most 
gladly  concede." 

Ethel's  face  grew  colorless,  and  her  eyes  shadowed  as 
she  listened. 

"  I  have  the  highest  possible  opinion  of  the  duke," 
continued  Lord  St.  Norman  ;  "  he  is  a  gentleman  in  the 
highest,  noblest  sense  of  the  word.  He  will  make  you 
happy  by  his  kindness,  and  by  his  gentle,  considerate  man- 
ner ;  he  is  truthful  and  honorable  ;  above  all,  he  is  amiable 
— and,  Ethel,  you  will  know  how  to  appreciate  constant 
good  temper  and  sunshine  in  the  house.  I  am  convinced 
that  you  will  be  perfectly  happy." 

She  opened  her  lips  to  speak,  but  the  sound  died  away 
upon  them.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  not  bear  to 
disappoint  him. 

"Then,  as  to  position,"  pursued  Lord  St.  Norman, 
"you  will  occupy  a  position  second  only  to  that  of  royalty. 
The  Duke  of  Southmead  is  not  only  one  of  the  wealthiest, 
but  he  is  one  of  the  most  distinguished  peers  in  England. 
I  do  not  think  the  most  ambitious  father  living  could  desire 
a  happier  lot  for  his  child.  As  Duchess  of  Southmead, 


!  9  2  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

you  will  be  the  most  popular  woman  in  England.  My  darl' 
ing,  I  am  so  thankful  for  you — so  content." 

Then  she  said  to  herself  that  it  was  time  she  spoke — 
time  she  told  him  these  hopes  of  his  could  never  be  realized. 
She  went  over  to  him  and  laid  her  hands  on  his  shoulder, 
looking  wistfully  into  his  happy  face. 

"  Papa,"  she  said,  sadly,  "  it  cannot  be.  I  am  grieved 
that  you  shall  be  disappointed  ;  I  am  more  sorry  than  I 
can  express.  I  would  do  almost  anything  to  give  you 
pleasure,  but  I  cannot  do  this.  I  cannot  marry  the  Duke 
of  Southmead." 

He  looked  greatly  disappointed — the  happy  smile  died 
from  his  lips. 

"  You  cannot,  Ethel !     Why  not  ? " 

"  I  do  not  love  him,  papa.  I  acknowledge  the  truth  of 
all  you  say ;  he  is  one  of  the  most  agreeable  and  kind- 
hearted  men  I  have  ever  met.  But  I  do  not  love  him.  I 
cannot  marry  him." 

Lord  St.  Norman  looked  anxiously  at  her. 

"  Ethel,"  he  said  gravely,  "  you  have  too  much  common 
sense  to  refuse  such  a  magnificent  offer  from  any  foolish 
schoolgirl  notions  of  love  and  sentiment." 

"  I  have  no  schoolgirl  notions,"  she  returned,  sadly ; 
"  it  would  be  better  for  me  ten  thousand  times  if  I  had." 

"  Esteem  is  the  surest,  best,  and  safest  foundation  for 
love,"  he  pointed  out.  "  You  esteem  the  duke — you 
acknowledge  that  you  think  most  highly  of  him.  Love, 
the  highest,  best  love  of  all,  will  surely  follow." 

"  Not  in  this  case,  papa,"  she  opposed.  "  I  esteem 
and  like  him — I  am  grateful  to  him  for  the  great  honor  he 
has  paid  me — but  I  cannot  marry  him." 

Lord  St.  Norman  sighed. 

"  You  were  always  a  puzzle  to  me,  Ethel,"  he  said, 
slowly.  "  Of  late  I  have  hot  understood  you — nay,  at 
times  I  have  not  recognized  you  as  the  Ethel  who  was  like 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  ig$ 

sunshine  in  our  home.  I  suppose,  then,  I  must  tell  the 
duke  that  you  decline  ?  " 

She  clung  to  him,  saying  he  was  the  kindest,  the  dearest, 
the  best  of  fathers — that  she  loved  him  so  dearly,  and  was 
so  grieved  to  disappoint  him — that  it  must  not  make  any 
difference  in  his  love  to  her — that  he  must  always  care  for 
her  the  same — but  that  she  could  not  marry  the  duke. 

"  We  will  say  no  more  about  it,  then,  Ethel.  I  will 
write  to  him  to-day.  Why,  child,  how  pale  you  are.  You 
need  not  be  unhappy  over  it — no  one  can  force  you  to 
marry ;  and  you  shall  never  marry,  Ethel,  with  my  consent 
until  you  really  and  truly  fall  in  love." 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

A  GROUP  of  gentlemen  stood  under  the  trees  in  the 
park.  They  had  been  watching  the  fair  faces  of  the  ladies 
who  passed  in  carriages,  and  the  fresh  faces  of  young  girls 
who  rode.  The  day  was  beautiful,  the  sun  shining  brightly, 
and  half  the  elite  of  London  seemed  to  be  in  the  park. 

The  group  of  gentlemen  consisted  of  Sir  Oscar  Charl- 
cote,  Lord  Caton,  Major  Argent,  and  Sir  Harry  Laine. 
The  subject  under  discussion  was  a  rumor  that  had  startled 
the  fashionable  world. 

"  It  is  all  over  with  the  Richmond  dinners,"  observed 
Lord  Caton.  "  Southmead  has  left  London.  The  whole 
affair  is  given  up.  I  had  a  note  from  him  yesterday." 

"  So  had  I,"  said  the  major. 

The  young  duke  had  organized  a  grand  water-party 
that  was  to  terminate  with  a  dinner  at  Richmond.  Sud- 
denly, to  their  surprise,  the  invited  guests  received  a  note 
expressing  infinite  regret  at  the  unavoidable  disappoint- 


194 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


ment,  but  that  the  Duke  of  Southmead  was  obliged  to  leave 
London  that  very  day. 

"  Leave  London  in  the  midst  of  the  season !  "  cried  Sir 
Harry  Laine.  "  What  is  the  reason  ?  " 

Then  came  the  startling  report  that  Miss  St.  Norman 
had  refused  him,  and  that  he  had  gone  away  in  a  fit  of 
desperation.  Sir  Charles  Myrton  had  met  the  duke  com- 
ing from  Brookdale  House — had  seen  him  with  his  face 
white  as  death,  and  his  lips  trembling.  He  had  stopped 
to  speak  to  him,  but  the  young  duke  had  passed  on  with 
something  that  sounded  like  a  deep,  muttered  curse.  After- 
ward he  heard  what  rumor  said.  Sir  Charles  understood 
it  all ;  and  now  the  little  group  under  the  trees  were  dis- 
cussing the  same  event. 

"Do  you  really  believe,"  asked  Lord  Caton,  "that 
Miss  St.  Norman  has  refused  him  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  fact,  I  assure  you  ;  "  replied  the  major.  "  I 
always  thought  she  would.  Yet  I  never  saw  a  man  so 
thoroughly  in  love.  He  followed  her  like  a  shadow.  But  I 
never  saw  her  give  him  the  least  encouragment." 

"  That  would  be  a  new  experience  for  him,"  comment- 
ed Lord  Caton.  "  Young  dukes,  as  a  rule,  do  not  com- 
plain of  wanting  encouragement. ' 

"  I  felt  sure,"  resumed  the  major,  "  that  she  would  not 
have  him.  I  was  quite  desperate  about  her  myself  the 
first  few  times  that  I  saw  her.  But  Miss  St.  Norman  is 
not  like  the  ordinary  run  of  women.  She  is  no  coquette ; 
she  never  seems  to  give  a  thought  to  love  or  matrimony. 
Indeed,  in  my  opinion  she  dislikes  both." 

Sir  Oscar  Charlcote  listened  attentively. 

"  I  yield  to  no  one  in  my  chivalrous  respect  for  women," 
he  said ;  "  but  I  must  confess  that  I  find  it  difficult  to 
believe  that  a  rich  and  handsome  young  duke  could  meet 
with  a  refusal." 

"  It  is  true,"   declared  the  major.     "  I  am  sorry  for 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  T 9 5 

Southmead — he  was  desperately  fond  of  her.  He  has  taken 
it  deeply  to  heart.  I  hear  that  he  first  went  home,  and 
then  started  off  the  same  day  for  the  Continent." 

"  That  much  is  true,"  said  Lord  Caton  ;  "  as  to  the 
rest,  I  reserve  my  opinion." 

"  What  is  she  like — this  Miss  St.  Norman  ?  "  asked 
Sir  Oscar. 

"  Have  you  not  see  her  ?  "  cried  three  of  the  group  at 
once. 

"  No.  She  was  at  Lady  Crane's  ball,  I  believe  ;  I  met 
her  father  there,  but  I  did  not  stay  long.  I  have  never 
seen  her.  What  is  she  like  ?  " 

"  Like  no  one  whom  you  have  ever  seen,  or  whom  I  can 
name,"  replied  the  major.  "  She  is  the  most  beautiful 
girl  in  all  England.  She  is  very  clever,"  continued  the 
speaker,  "  witty,  quick  at  repartee,  and  brilliant  in  sarcasm. 
But  she  is  not  to  be  judged  by  ordinary  rules." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Sir  Oscar. 

"  Because  she  is  not  like  ordinary  people.  She  is 
proud  and  cold,  with  a  certain  graceful  haughtiness  about 
her,  a  proud,  serene  indifference  which  I  cannot  describe. 
You  must  see  her  in  order  to  understand  me.  I  do  not  be- 
lieve she  cares  for  compliment  nor  do  I  believe  that  there 
is  a  man  living  who  could  bring  a  bright  flush  to  her 
beautiful  face." 

"  Has  she  been  unhappy  in  any  love  affair  ? "  asked 
Sir  Oscar. 

"  I  think  not,"  answered  the  major,  laughing.  "  With 
all  her  stately  beauty  and  queenly  grace,  her  proud  in- 
difference and  imperial  reserve,  she  is  only  a  girl — not 
more  than  eighteen,  I  am  sure.  Look — those  are  the  St. 
Norman  liveries.  Now  you  will  see  her." 

As  he  spoke  a  carriage  passed  slowly  along.  Sir  Oscar 
looking  up,  saw  a  girl  who  seemed  to  him  more  lovely  than 
any  artist's  dream — a  beautiful  face,  dainty  in  bloom, 


I96  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

perfect  in  feature,  lovely  with  an  inexpressible  charm,  yet 
with  a  touch  of  sadness  which  heightened  its  beauty.  The 
curved,  faultless  lips  were  sad  ;  the  bright,  proud  eyes,  not 
melancholy,  not  pensive,  but  sad.  He  saw  rich  masses  of 
golden-brown  hair.  He  looked  at  her  lingeringly,  and  as 
the  carriage  passed,  her  eyes  met  his.  At  that  very  mo- 
ment she  was  thinking  of  the  memorable  words  that  he 
had  spoken  to  his  brother ;  the  sunshine  and  the  flowers  had 
brought  to  her  mind  St.  Ina's,  with  its  sad  memories.  She 
had  just  repeated  his  words  to  herself  when  she  saw  him. 
Their  eyes  met,  and  they  looked  at  each  otl^r — the  two 
who  were  to  love  and  suffer  as  few  did — and  then  the  car- 
riage passed  on,  Sir  Oscar  gazing  after  it,  and  then  rousing 
himself  with  a  deep  sigh,  as  one  who  awakes  from  a  dream. 

"  She  is  very  lovely,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  but  not  happy  ; 
her  face  is  perfect,  but  it  is  not  a  happy  face  ;  young  as 
she  is,  there  is  a  story  in  it — one  not  pleasant  to  remem- 
ber." 

"The  same  thought  struck  me,"  acknowledged  the 
major.  "  I  have  been  in  love  many  times  in  my  life,  but 
I  really  never  did  admire  any  one  so  much  as  I  do  Miss 
St.  Norman." 

0  You  had  no  chance,  I  suppose,  major  ?  "  interrogated 
Lord  Caton. 

"  Not  the  least  in  the  world ; "  he  confessed,  good-tern- 
peredly.  "  I  do  not  think  she  saw  me  more  than  once, 
and  then  her  beautiful  eyes  dismissed  me." 

"  Why  did  she  refuse  the  Duke  of  Southmead  ? "  asked 
Sir  Oscar. 

"  She  did  not  love  him,"  answered  Lord  Caton  ;  "  she 
is  a  girl  who  would  consider  the  world  well  lost  for  love — • 
that  is,  if  her  face  tells  the  truth." 

The  group  separated  soon  afterward,  but  Sir  Oscar 
thought  long  and  deeply  of  the  fair-faced  girl  who  had  re-* 
fused  a  duke  because  she  did  not  love  him. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  ^ 

"  There  must  be  plenty  of  my  favorite  virtue  there," 
he  said  to  himself  ;  "  she  must  have  plenty  of  courage." 

It  was  not  long  before  the  news  had  spread.  Fash- 
ionable London  had  been  startled  once,  and  that  was  when 
it  was  first  known  that  the  duke  was  in  love  with  Miss  St. 
Norman  ;  now  it  was  startled  again  on  hearing  that  she 
had  refused  him — "  had  positively  refused  him,  with  his 
ducal  coronet,  his  handsome  face,  and  his  rent-roll  of  over 
two  hundred  thousand  per  annum  !  " 

Ladies  held  up  their  hands  in  wonder.  What  was  she 
waiting  for — what  did  she  expect  ?  They  were  relieved, 
yet  angry.  Having  refused  him,  she  had  driven  him  from 
London ;  for  that  they  were  annoyed.  But  he  was  still 
free  ;  and  now  there  was  a  chance  for  some  other  fair  face. 

Ethel  had  been  famous  for  her  beauty,  but  now  she  had 
a  new  claim  to  honor.  She  was  "  the  beautiful  Miss  St. 
Norman,  who  had  refused  the  Duke  of  Southmead."  She 
was  more  celebrated  for  that  than  she  would  have  been  if 
she  had  married  him. 

Some  pronounced  her  ambitious  ;  they  said  that  she 
must  be  waiting  for  a  foreign  prince,  and  that  her  pride 
would  have  a  fall.  Others  smilingly  asserted  that  she  was 
romantic,  and  had  ideas  of  love  which  could  never  be  real- 
ized. Who  guessed  the  truth,  that  the  young,  beautiful, 
and  beloved  daughter  of  an  ancient  line,  the  heiress  of 
great  wealth,  was  the  wife  of  a  common  felon  ?  Who 
guessed  the  terrible  secret  that  by  night  and  by  day  stood 
by  her  side  and  darkened  every  moment  of  her  life  ? 


REPENTED  AT  LEISURE. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

ETHEL  had  felt  profound  pity,  for  the  young  duke  ;  his 
handsome  face  had  grown  white  and  haggard  as  he  lis- 
tened to  the  words  which  told  him  his  fate. 

"  Will  you  answer  one  question  ?  "  he  said.  "  If  I  wait 
for  years,  if  I  try  all  that  man  can  try,  will  it  be  of  any 
use  ? " 

"  No,"  she  replied,  gravely.  "  I  have  been  frank  with 
you.  You  have  my  esteem,  my  friendly  liking,  but  I  can 
never  give  you  more." 

"  Never,"  he  repeated — "  in  all  time  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Ethel.  "  The  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to 
forget  me." 

"  I  shall  never  forget  you,"  he  cried  bitterly. 

She  realized  what  love  meant  when  she  looked  on  his 
face  and  saw  the  bitter  grief  there.  That  was  love — the 
terrible,  earnest  passion  that  had  such  power  over  the 
human  heart.  She  had  never  felt  anything  like  that. 
Once  for  a  few  minutes  she  had  been  uncomfortable  be- 
cause Laurie  Nugent  looked  grieved.  The  feeling  was 
soon  over — she  hardly  remembered  it ;  but  she  owned  to 
herself  that,  if  at  any  time  he  had  said  he  must  leave  St. 
Ina's,  she  would  not  have  felt  one  tithe  of  the  regret  and 
pain  that  filled  the  heart  of  the  Duke  of  Southmead. 

Oh,  blind  and  foolish,  to  have  mistaken  that  fleeting 
fancy  for  love  !  Oh,  blind  and  foolish,  to  have  thought  a 
man  like  Laurie  Nugent  could  ever  win  love  from  her. 

For  the  first  time,  too,  a  great  fear  came  over  her. 
She  had  never  loved  Laurie  Nugent.  She  had  mistaken 
fancy  for  affection — she  had  taken  the  shadow  for  the  sub« 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  ^ 

stance.  What  if  a  time  should  come  when  she  should  meet 
with  any  one  whom  she  could  love — any  one  to  whom  her 
soul  should  be  drawn  by  that  irresistible  force  men  call 
love  ? 

"  I  must  be  on  my  guard,"  she  thought — "  that  is  a 
danger  I  had  almost  overlooked.  I  must  be  on  my  guard. 
If  I  find  that  I  am  likely  to  love  any  one,  I  must  never  see 
him  again !  " 

So  she,  in  her  earnest  simplicity,  planned  and  arranged. 
She  did  not  wish  to  increase  her  sin.  It  was  bad  enough 
— it  must  not  be  made  worse  by  any  complications.  She 
had  done  all  that  lay  in  her  power  to  prevent  the  young 
Duke  from  falling  in  love  with  her,  and  she  could  not 
accuse  herself  of  having  sought  to  attract  attention.  In 
her  half-childlike,  half-womanly  wisdom,  she  arranged  with 
herself  that,  if  ever  she  should  find  herself  in  danger  of 
liking  any  man  she  would  instantly  renounce  his  acquaint- 
ance. It  was  strange  that  she  never  looked  forward — that 
no  hope  of  relief  ever  occurred  to  her,  She  never  thought 
to  herself  that  perhaps  death  might  prove  her  friend  ;  that 
Laurie  Nugent  might  die.  The  chains  that  she  wore  were 
to  bind  her  for  ever.  No  hope  of  laying  them  down 
crossed  her  mind. 

*#=*##### 

Lord  St.  Norman  gave  a  grand  dinner-party,  and  one 
of  the  guests  whom  he  invited  was  Oscar  Charlcote. 

"  I  hope  Ethel  will  like  him,"  he  said  to  his  wife.  "  I 
think  Oscar  Charlcote  the  finest  fellow  in  England." 

"  Better  than  the  Duke  of  Southmead  ? "  interrupted 
Helen,  demurely. 

"  My  dearest  Helen,"  rejoined  Lord  St.  Norman,  laugh- 
ing, "without  wishing  to  be  disrespectful  to  either  gentle- 
man, I  may  say  there  is  as  great  a  difference  between  them 
as  between  a  noble  retriever  and  a  spaniel." 

"  Sir  Oscar  being  the  retriever  ?  "  said  Helen. 


200  REPENTED  AT  LEISURE. 

"  Precisely  so.  I  begin  to  think,  Helen,  that  with  all 
her  pride  Ethel  has  a  great  fund  of  romance.  Since  she 
refused  the  Duke  of  Southmead  I  have  come  to  this  con- 
clusion, that  she  will  most  probably  fall  in  love  with  some 
artist  or  poet — and  I  should  not  like  that.  If  she  must 
have  a  hero,  she  could  not  find  a  more  noble  one  than  Sir 
Oscar.  I  suppose  I  had  not  better  say  so  to  her." 

"Certainly  not,"  decided  Helen,  quietly.  "  Let  her 
have  her  own  way  entirely.  There  is  something  of  the 
grand  and  heroic  in  Ethel's  character.  When  she  does  fall 
in  love  it  will  be  with  some  one  like  herself." 

"  There  is  one  thing  you  can  do,"  suggested  Lord  St. 
Norman.  "  She  always  looks  beautiful,  yet  it  seems  to  me 
she  is  indifferent  about  dress.  You  might  superintend  her 
toilet,  and  see  that  she  looks  her  best  to-night." 

Lady  St.  Norman  promised,  but  she  kept  her  promise 
without  any  gleam  of  hope  in  it.  She  had  been  more  puz- 
zled than  any  one  by  Ethel's  rejection  of  the  young  duke. 
She  came  to  the  conclusion  that,  young  as  she  was,  Ethel 
in  all  probability  had  formed  a  resolution  never  to  marry. 

"  She  has  all  the  Gordon  pride,"  thought  Lady  St.  Nor- 
man, "  and,  if  she  has  made  such  a  resolution,  she  will 
doubtless  keep  it." 

But,  to  please  her  husband,  she  had  a  most  exquisite 
costume  arranged  for  Ethel — a  dress  of  white  silk,  richly 
arid  elaborately  trimmed  with  pink  hawthorn.  Even  Ethel, 
indifferent  as  she  was  to  dress,  gave  a  little  startled  cry  of 
surprise  when  she  saw  it.  He-len  kissed  the  fair  young 
face. 

"  You  will  be  your  brightest  and  best  to-night,  Ethel, 
will  you  not  ?  Your  father  is  so  proud  of  you,  I  ought  to 
be  jealous  ;  but  I  cannot  be." 

The  dinner-party  was  not  a  large  one,  but  the  few  as- 
sembled were  all  celebrated  in  some  way  or  other.  There 
was  a  leading  statesman,  one  or  two  members  of  Parliament! 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  201 

a  celebrated  writer,  one  or  two  leaders  of  fashion,  and  Ethel 
— a  quiet,  select  little  party.  Sir  Oscar  Charlcote  was  in- 
cluded in  the  number  of  guests. 

Lord  St.  Norman  looked  anxiously  at  his  daughter  as 
she  entered  the  drawing-room.  There  was  a  slight  flush 
on  her  beautiful  face,  and  her  eyes  were  bright  as  stars.  He 
\vas  delighted  with  the  elegance  of  her  dress,  and  the  charm- 
ing grace  of  her  appearance.  She  had  been  there  some 
little  time  when  Sir  Oscar  Charlcote  was  announced.  She 
looked  up  in  interested  wonder  when  he  entered.  What  was 
he  like,  this  man,  a  few  of  whose  words  had  make  so  great 
an  impression  upon  her?  She  saw  a  tall,  noble  looking 
gentleman,  with  an  erect  figure  and  military  bearing.  His 
face  was  not  exactly  handsome,  but  it  was  frank,  full  of 
courage,  of  fire,  of  genius — a  face  to  be  trusted  and  loved. 

Ethel  thought  of  her  father's  description — he  combined 
the  gentleness  of  a  child  with  the  bravery  of  a  lion.  She 
believed  it ;  the  tall,  powerful  figure,  the  noble  face,  the 
fearless  eyes,  were  combined  with  a  mouth  gentle  and  beau- 
tiful as  that  of  any  woman.  She  looked  at  him  earnestly. 
He  was  the  ideal  of  a  soldier  and  a  gentleman.  Truth  and 
chivalry  were  in  his  face,  gentleness  and  dauntless  bravery. 

"  If  his  mind  matches  his  face  and  figure,"  she  thought 
to  herself,  "  I  shall  like  Sir  Oscar  Charlcote." 

She  found  herself  wishing  that  he  would  speak  to  her. 
She  would  like  to  see  him  smile — she  would  like  to  hear 
him  speak.  In  a  few  minutes  her  desire  was  gratified. 
Lord  St.  Norman  crossed  the  room,  bringing  Sir  Oscar  with 
him. 

Ethel's  first  sensation  as  he  bowed  before  her  was  one 
of  delight  that  her  idea  of  him  was  verified — that  his  smile 
was  sweet  and  gentle  as  that  of  a  woman  or  a  child.  Then 
she  found  herself  looking  at  his  face,  and  wondering  where 
she  had  seen  him  before.  Lord  St.  Norman  left  them, 
while  he  went  to  welcome  some  other  guests ;  and  then 


2  02  RE  PEN  TLD  A  T  LEISURE. 

Sir  Oscar  sat  down  by  Ethel's  side.  She  was  looking  half 
wistfully  in  his  face. 

"  Sir  Oscar,"  she  said,  suddenly,  "  I  cannot  divest  my- 
self of  the  idea  that  I  have  seen  you  before.  Yet  I  can- 
not remember  where." 

"  I  saw  you,  Miss  St.  Norman,"  he  observed,  smiling, 
"  In  the  Park.  I  was  standing  with  a  group  of  friends 
when  your  carriage  passed  by.'* 

Then  she  remembered  the  face  that  had  attracted  her 
attention — she  remembered  the  words  that  had  been  in  her 
mind  at  the  time — his  own  words — and  a  crimson  blush 
burned  her  face. 

He  looked  surprised.  Why  should  this  proud  girl,  who 
was  so  indifferent  to  fill  men,  blush  at  those  simple  words 
from  him  ?  But  he  was  interested — touched  by  it  as  he 
would  not  have  been  by  anything  else.  They  talked  to- 
gether for  the  short  space  of  time  that  elapsed  before  dinner, 
and  then  Sir  Oscar  escorted  her  to  the  dining-room.  He 
sat  by  her  during  dinner,  and  was  charmed  with  her  ;  her 
wondrous  beauty,  her  pleasant  words,  her  bright  eyes 
charmed  him ;  he  found  himself  looking  at  her  in  wonder. 

"  This  is  the  girl,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  who  refused 
the  best  match  in  England,  who  refused  the  young  duke. 
I  am  not  surprised,  now  that  I  have  seen  her ;  she  does 
not  look  like  one  who  would  marry  for  money — she  has  the 
noblest  and  most  beautiful  face  I  have  ever  seen." 

For  the  first  time  Sir  Oscar  was  distrait ;  he  was  gen- 
erally considered  one  of  the  most  amusing  companions, 
but  on  the  occasion  his  thoughts  were  all  engrossed  by 
the  beautiful  face  which  had  charmed  him  so  greatly. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  203 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

ETHEL  thought  of  the  dark-eyed,  noble  soldier  who  had 
been  so  attentive  and  kind  to  her.  She  hoped  he  would 
rejoin  her  in  the  drawing-room,  for  his  conversation  in- 
terested her.  She  thought  much  of  his  history  of  that 
terrible  scene  under  the  burning  Indian  sun — of  the  mur- 
dered wife,  the  tortured  children,  the  husband  whose  great- 
est pain  was  that  he  could  not  avenge  them.  Then  she 
began  to  wonder  how  he  could  ever  again  feel  light-hearted 
enough  to  mix  in  the  gay  world,  to  share  its  pleasures  or 
amusements.  She  fancied  that  the  memory  of  that  scene 
must  be  always  with  him.  She  looked  up  with  a  start ;  the 
object  of  her  thoughts  was  standing  before  her.  His  noble 
face  was  brightened  with  a  beautiful,  luminous  smile. 

"  Miss  St.  Norman,"  he  said,  "  you  look  so  deeply 
buried  in  your  thoughts  that,  if  they  are  pleasant  ones,  it 
would  really  be  unkind  to  disturb  you." 

Her  face  flushed  at  his  words.  She  knew  that  she  was 
thinking  of  him ;  and  then  she  caught  herself  wondering 
why  this  man  had  the  power  of  calling  those  burning  blushes 
to  her  face  when  no  other  could. 

"  May  I  find  a  place  near  you  ?  "  he  inquired.  "  I 
should  like  to  finish  that  little  discussion  of  ours." 

She  made  way  for  him,  and  he  sat  down  by  her  side  ; 
but,  when  the  "  little  discussion"  was  ended,  he  showed  no 
great  desire  to  leave  her,  and  she  was  almost  unconscious 
of  the  great  pleasure  she  felt  in  his  society.  On  the  table 
before  them  lay  some  elegantly-bound  books  of  poetry. 
He  opened  one  and  looked  carelessly  through  it. 

"  Which  is  your  favorite  poet,  Miss  St.  Norman  ?  "  he 
asked. 


2  04  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  The  one  who  teaches  the  best  lesson  of  endurance,* 
she  replied — "  the  one  whose  pages  are  full  of  calm  courage 
and  fortitude*" 

He  looked  at  her  in  some  surprise. 

"  Is  endurance  your  favorite  virtue  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  gravely. 

"  Pardon  me — you  are  young — how  can  you  have  learned 
to  care  for  a  hard  virtue  like  that,  one  acquired  only  after 
years  of  suffering  ?  " 

She  thought  to  herself.  "  If  he  knew — if  he  only 
knew !  " 

"  Perhaps,"  he  continued,  with  the  smile  she  was  begin- 
ing  to  like  so  well,  "  you  admire  it  merely  theoretically.  You 
like  it  so  well,  I  trust  you  may  never  be  called  upon  to 
practice  it." 

"  Why  should  you  wish  that  ?  "  she  asked,  suddenly.  "  I 
thought  men  and  women  never  became  thoroughly  noble 
until  they  had  suffered.  I  have  read  somewhere  that  suf- 
fering is  the  great  dignifier  of  life." 

"  I  should  say  that  much  depends  on  what  the  suffering 
is,"  he  replied,  thoughtfully.  "  There  can  be  no  doubt 
that  that  which  comes  from  Heaven  ennobles  those  who 
bear  it  patiently — ennobles  them  as  nothing  else  can." 

"  But  what  of  those  who  suffer  by  their  own  fault,"  she 
cried  eagerly — "  who  have  brought  the  punishment  of  their 
offenses  on  themselves — what  of  them  ? " 

He  looked  slightly  surprised  at  her  earnestness. 

"  Even  then,"  he  answered,  "  when  it  is,  as  you  say, 
their  own  fault  brought  upon  them  in  consequence  of  folly 
and  sin — even  then  I  think  such  suffering,  patiently  borne, 
ennobles  man  and  woman  too  ;  it  teaches  them  lessons  they 
could  learn  in  no  other  school — it  elevates  them.  As  a 
rule,  it  makes  them  kinder  of  heart,  and  more  considerate 
for  others." 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  205 

"  Tell  me  another  thing,"  she  asked,  "  which  is  the 
harder  to  bear,  mental  or  physical  pain  ? " 

"  I  should  say  mental  pain.  The  smart  of  a  burn,  the 
anguish  of  a  wound,  the  long  distress  of  a  severe  illness — 
all  are  hard  to  bear  ;  but  to  me  they  seem  nothing  when 
compared  with  mental  pain.  The  depression  nothing  can 
remove,  the  regret  nothing  can  stifle,  the  despair  nothing 
can  alleviate — all  these  are  far  worse  than  mere  physical 
pain." 

She  looked  up  at  him  suddenly,  and  then  her  eyes 
drooped  and  her  face  flushed. 

"  You  were  going  to  ask  me  a  question, "  he  said. 
"  What  is  it  ?  Your  eyes  have  asked  it  already — your  lips 
need  not  hesitate  to  repeat  it." 

"  I  shall  be  afraid  of  you,'7  she  said,  blushing ;  "  you 
read  my  thoughts." 

"  I  may  guess  them,'7  he  rejoined ;  "  I  cannot  read 
them.  What  was  the  question  your  eyes  asked  me  ?  " 

"  Have  you  suffered  the  mental  pain  that  you  seem  to 
understand  so  well  ?  "  she  inquired. 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  he  replied, — 

"  Yes,  I  have  endured  both ;  and,  I  repeat,  physical 
pain  is  the  easier  to  bear." 

She  looked  at  the  noble  face,  with  its  grand  resolve  ; 
and  again  she  imagined  that  awful  scene  under  the  burning 
sun.  She  could  fancy  him  wounded,  and  bound  ;  she  could 
imagine  him,  with  stern  face  and  firm  lips,  crying  out : 
"  Set  your  teeth  and  die  hard,"  now  that  she  knew  him, 
and  looked  at  him.  She  could  better  understand  all  the 
brave  endurance,  the  courage,  the  fearlessness.  What 
would  he  say,  she  wondered,  if  he  knew  that  he  had  been 
an  influence  in  her  life — that  he  had  first  taught  her  to 
look  up  from  the  slough  of  despond,  and  take  higher  views. 

Suddenly  she  became  aware  that  he  was  looking  at  her 
again  with  the  same  bright,  grave  smile. 


2  06  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  Miss  St.  Norman,"  he  said,  "  we  have  chosen  a  strange 
subject ;  and  a  dinner-party  is  hardly  the  occasion  one 
would  select  for  the  discussion  of  pain." 

"  I  have  an  unfortunate  habit  of  speaking  of  the  sub- 
ject that  occupies  me,"  she  confessed. 

"  And  you  were  thinking  so  intently  of  pain  ?  That  is 
a  strange  subject  for  a  young  lady's  musing." 

"  Is  it  ?  "  she  asked,  simply. 

"  I  think  so.  A  young  girl's  thoughts  should  be  de- 
voted to  music  or  flowers,  to  pleasure  past  or  to  come  ;  her 
musings  should  be  bright,  cheerful,  hopeful," 

"  Mine  never  are,"  she  sighed,  and  then  she  seemed  to 
repent  of  her  words,  and  he,  seeing  that  she  wished  them 
unspoken,  took  no  notice  of  them. 

"  As  a  stranger  to  you,"  he  said,  "  I  must  apologize  for 
what  I  am  going  to  say.  Will  you  give  me  a  full  and  free 
pardon  before  I  commit  the  offense  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  replied;  "you  may  say  what  you  will  to 
me." 

"  Then  forgive  me  if  I  tell  you  that  I  think  you  are  in- 
clined to  look  upon  the  gloomy  side  of  life.  There  is  plenty 
of  pain,  but  there  is  also  plenty  of  pleasure.  Do  you  never 
think  of  that — of  all  that  life  holds  so  bright  and  beautiful 
men  never  wish  to  leave  it  ?  " 

"No,"  she  replied,  "  my  thoughts  seldom  dwell  on  that 
brighter  side." 

"That  seems  strange,"  he  returned.  "You  are  the 
first  young  lady  I  have  met  with  of  so  peculiar  a  turn  of 
mind." 

She  thought  to  herself,  with  a  bitterness  words  could 
not  describe,  that  she  was  in  all  probability  the  only  one 
he  had  ever  met  with  who  carried  about  with  her  a  terrible 
secret — the  only  one  who,  bearing  a  noble  name,  was  in 
secrecy  the  wife  of  a  criminal. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  207 

"  You  do  not  think  I  am  presuming  upon  your  kindness 
in  speaking  so  freely?"  he  inquired. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  raising  her  sweet,  clear  eyes  to  his 
face — "  I  am  grateful  to  you.  I  shall  remember  all  that 
you  have  said."  Presently  she  asked,  "  Do  you  remem- 
ber these  lines  of  Barry  Cornwall's 

"  '  We  toil  through  pain  and  wrong  — 

We  fight,  and  fly— 
We  love — we  lose — and  then  ere  long 

Stone  dead  we  lie. 
O  life,  is  all  thy  song 

Endure  and  die  ! ' 

That  is  the  great  lesson — the  great  end  of  life,"  she  com- 
mented— "  endure  and  die.  When  one  has  learned  that, 
the  secret  of  life  is  known." 

"  My  dear  Miss  St.  Norman,  what  sad  views  you  take ! 
Believe  me,  I  have  suffered  my  share — I  have  gone  through 
the  bitterness  of  death,  yet  did  not  die.  For  every  one 
there  is  a  vast  amount  of  pleasure  and  happiness  in  this 
world,  if  they  will  but  seek  it.  How  is  it  that  a  man  who 
has  neither  money,  nor  home,  nor  food,  who  is  sick  even 
unto  death  and  worn  with  privation,  whose  every  breath  is 
full  of  pain — how  is  it  that  even  such  a  man  will  cling  with 
the  utmost  tenacity  to  life  ?  There  must  be  something  in 
it  despite  its  sorrows,  or  we  should  not  cling  so  eagerly  to 
it." 

"  But  what,"  she  inquired,  "  if  a  person  completely  de- 
stroys all  the  possible  happiness  of  a  lifetime  by  one  rash 
action." 

"  That  rarely  happens,"  he  answered  ;  "  and  I  do  not 
think  it  possible  to  destroy  all  happiness.  What,  for  in- 
stance, can  take  from  us  our  love  of  Nature  ?  What,  can 
change  the  beauty  of  the  sunshine,  the  glory  of  the  sun- 
set, the  holy  calm  of  starlit  nights,  the  mystical  silence  of 
the  woods  ?  I  would  that  I  could  choose  for  you  books  to 


2  o8  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

read,  pictures  to  look  at,  scenes  to  enjoy,  that  would  give 
you  brighter,  happier  ideas  of  life  than  you  seem  to 
possess. 

"  You  shall  so  teach  me  if  you  will,"  she  returned-'* 
and  the  compact  was  made  then  and  there. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

ETHEL  and  Sir  Oscar  met  next  at  a  flower-show. 
Lord  St.  Norman  had  expressed  a  wish  that  his  wife  and 
daughter  should  both  go.  Ethel  had  almost  implored  him 
to  excuse  her,  but  he  would  not  hear  of  it. 

"  It  is  not  only,  Ethel,  that  all  the  great  world  will  be 
there,"  he  said,  "  but  the  flowers  themselves  are  so  exceed- 
ingly beautiful.  You  will,  I  am  sure  be  delighted." 

"  I  do  not  like  flowers,'*  she  said  quickly. 

"  Not  like  them  ?  "  exclaimed  Lady  St.  Norman.  "  Why, 
Ethel,  I  used  to  think  you  cared  more  for  them  than  any- 
thing else !  " 

So  she  did — years  ago ;  but  now  the  very  sight  of 
flowers  gave  her  pain.  They  were  associated  in  her  mind 
with  St.  Ina's  and  the  fair  summer  morning  when  she  had 
walked  through  the  woods,  in  the  midst  of  fragrance  and 
bloom  to  her  fatal  marriage.  They  were  full  of  silent,  s-ad 
memories  for  her.  She  had  been  used  to  caress  and  iove 
them  like  living  friends  ;  but  she  did  so  no  longer — no  one 
ever  saw  her  linger  over  flowers  or  tend  them.  But,  as 
her  father  had  expressed  a  wish  about  the  flower-show,  she 
went. 

She  said  to  herself  before  they  started  that  she  would 
find  no  great  pleasure  in  it ;  but  she  must  go.  She  would 
have  the  fatigue  of  dressing,  of  walking  for  hours  in  the 
midst  of  fragrant  blossoms,  the  odor  of  which  would  recall 
scenes  she  hated  to  remember,  of  listening  to  compliments 
that  would  be  distasteful  to  her ;  she  would  feel  strange 
and  isolated  in  the  midst  of  a  bright  crowd  of  happy  faces, 
knowing  that  such  happiness  and  such  brightness  could 
never  come  to  her. 


2 1  o  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

If  she  had  looked  in  her  mirror  before  starting,  she 
must  have  been  pleased  with  the  picture  she  saw  there 
• — the  beautiful  face  with  its  faint  bloom  ;  the  rich  brown 
hair  that  seemed  to  be  crowned  by  the  pretty  little  coquet- 
tish bonnet  of  white  lace,  with  its  one  blush-rose.  She 
looked  so  fair,  so  lovely,  so  young  that  it  seemed  impossible 
her  life  should  have  a  dark  and  terrible  side. 

There  was  a  long  drive,  and  then  they  came  to  the  gar- 
dens where  the  fete  was  being  held.  Despite  her  great 
sorrow,  and  the  dark  cloud  that  was  not  to  be  lifted  from 
her  life,  youth  reasserted  itself.  The  sun  was  shining  bright- 
ly, the  bands  were  playing  gayly,  colored  flags  were  flying 
from  the  trees.  Ethel's  face  flushed,  her  eyes  brightened, 
her  heart  beat.  She  saw  the  bright  costumes  of  the  ladies, 
beautiful  and  brilliant  as  the  flowers  themselves.  For  some 
few  minutes  she  gave  way  to  unusual  exhilaration  of  spirits, 
and  then  she  was  her  old  self  again.  The  memory  of  her 
terrible  secret  returned  to  her.  What  right  had  she  here 
— the  wife  of  a  convicted  felon. 

Slowly  and  wearily  she  walked  among  the  brilliant  rows 
of  bloom  ;  she  saw  the  faces  of  girls  of  the  same  age 
as  herself  all  blithe  and  gay ;  she  listened  to  their  pretty, 
lively  nonsense,  feeling  old,  worn,  and  aged  in  comparison, 
and  envying  them,  yet  owning  to  herself  there  was  no  one 
to  blame — it  was  her  own  fault. 

"  You  are  tired,  Ethel,"  said  Lady  St.  Norman.  "  Rest 
here  awhile,  I  am  going  with  Lady  Long  to  see  the  white 
camellias.  Would  you  like  to  accompany  us,  or  will  you 
remain  here  ? " 

"I  will  rest,"  decided  Ethel. 

It  seemed  to  her  a  relief  to  be  away  from  the  sound  of 
voices. 

"She  wandered  down  a  narrow  path  that  seemed  com- 
pletely -deserted.  Here  were  no  rows  of  blooming,  fra- 
grant .blossoms,  no  laughing,  bright-faced  girls.  She  would 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  2 1 1 

sit  in  golden-green  light,  and  muse  at  her  will  over  the  one 
fatal  error  that  had  blighted  her  whole  life.  Presently  she 
raised  her  eyes  as  a  slight  sound  attracted  her  attention, 
and  saw  Sir  Oscar  coming  toward  her. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  Miss  St.  Norman,"  he  said. 
"  I  heard  you  were  coming."  He  did  not  add,  "  so  I  came 
too,"  but  the  words  were  on  his  lips. 

Her  face  brightened  as  she  saw  him. 

"  How  brilliant  the  flowers  are  looking/'  he  remarked 
14  Have  you  enjoyed  them  ?  " 

Her  face  flushed,  and  she  laughed. 

"I  must  tell  the  truth,"  she  replied.  "I  have  not 
noticed  them." 

"I  am  not  in  the  least  surprised,"  he  said,  smiling. 
"  You  come  to  a  flower-show,  where  sun  and  flowers  are 
all  bright  as  bright  can  be,  and,  instead  of  amusing  your- 
self as  any  one  else  would  do,  you  are  here  in  the  only 
dull  part  of  the  gardens,  away  from  every  one  and  every- 
thing. I  need  not  ask  the  nature  of  your  thoughts — one 
can  read  them  in  your  face." 

"  I  plead  guilty,"  she  responded. 

"  That  is  right,"  he  said.  "  Now  will  you,  having 
owned  your  fault,  atone  for  it  ?  Will  you  let  me  show  you 
the  flowers  ? " 

She  looked  up  brightly. 

"  Yes,  I  should  like  that  very  much,"  she  acknowledged. 

"  All  the  gentlemen  present  will  detest  me,  as  a  matter 
of  course,"  he  said,  "  for  monopolizing  the  fairest  flower 
in  the  gardens.  I  shall  not  care  for  that  if  you  will  promise 
to  enjoy  yourself.  You  do  not  know  how  I  long  to  see  a 
smile  on  your  face — a  happy,  bright  gratified  srnile." 

They  left  the  green  shade  and  went  out  among  the 
flowers.  He  had  promised  to  amuse  her,  and  he  did  so. 
He  told  her  the  most  quaint  and  charming  stories  about 
flowers — old  legends  that  he  had  read  in  rare  books,  grace- 


2 1 2  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

ful  stories  that  pleased  her  artistic  imagination.  He  spoke 
of  the  flowers  as  though  they  were  living  and  dear  to  him. 

"  It  is  strange  that  a  soldier  should  be  so  fond  of 
flowers,"  she  said  to  him. 

"  I  am  not  a  soldier  now,"  he  corrected,  laughingly. 
"  I  wish  I  were  :  one  of  the  saddest  days  of  my  life  was  the 
day  I  gave  up  the  army  for  what  is  called  a  country  life — 
I  liked  the  army  best." 

Since  the  days  of  her  pretty  fantastic  rule  in  Fountayne 
Ethel  had  known  few  bright  hours — childhood,  girlhood, 
happiness,  brightness  had  all  come  to  an  end  together ; 
but,  looking  back  in  after  years,  she  thought  of  this  as  one 
of  the  most  pleasant  hours  of  her  life.  She  forgot  her 
troubles — for  a  few  minutes  she  forgot  the  skeleton  that 
was  always  by  her  side.  She  gave  herself  up  to  the  sun- 
shine of  happiness,  and  in  it  she  became  radiantly  lovely. 
Sir  Oscar  was  more  charmed  than  ever.  She  talked  to 
him,  revealing  the  rich  treasures  of  imagination  with  which 
she  was  gifted.  She  gave  him  an  insight  to  her  mind, 
which  was  well  stored  with  poetic  lore.  He  was  astonished 
to  find  how  well  read  she  was,  and  complimented  her 
upon  it. 

"  You  must  have  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  in  read- 
ing," he  said — "more  than  is  usual  with  most  young 
ladies." 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  «'  I  love  the  world  of  books." 

"  Better  than  the  world  of  men  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  think  so,"  she  answered,  the  dainty  flush  rising  in 
her  beautiful  face.  "  There  are  no  disappointments  in 
books.  You  see  from  the  first  whether  the  hero  and  heroine 
are  going  to  turn  out  good  or  bad.  In  real  life  you  must 
wait  for  a  man's  death  before  you  can  possibly  know 
that." 

"  You  have  strangely  cynical  ideas  for  one  so  young," 
he  observed.  "If  I  did  not  know  you,  Miss  St.  Norman, 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  2 13 

I  should  imagine  that  you  had  been  greatly  disappointed 
in  some  one  very  dear  to  you." 

His  words  were  so  near  the  truth  that  she  looked  at 
him  in  surprise. 

"  Would  that  make  any  one  cynical  ?  "  she  asked, 
simply. 

"Yes,  more  cynical  and  bitter  than  anything  else 
would,"  he  replied. 

It  was  a  day  of  real  happiness,  but  when  it  had  ended, 
the  old  care  returned  to  Ethel,  and  took  possession  of  her 
with  redoubled  force. 


214  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

"  WITH  Sir  Oscar  Charlcote's  compliments." 
Ethel  looked  up,  and  there  before  her  was  one  of  the 
most  superb  bouquets  ever  arranged — flowers  that  she  had 
admired  greatly  at  the  flower-show  ;  there  were  specimens 
of  each,  and  as  they  were  carried  into  the  room  their  odor 
filled  it. 

Without  comment  she  took  the  bouquet  from  the  ser- 
vant's hand.  How  beautiful  they  were,  the  sweet,  fragrant 
blossoms,  rare  in  color,  rare  in  perfume  !  She  buried  her 
face  in  them — they  were  the  first  flowers  she  had  enjoyed 
for  so  long.  Some  lines  she  had  read  on  the  previous  day 
came  back  to  her  mind  : 

'*  The  smell  of  violets  hidden  in  the  green. 

Poured  back  upon  my  empty  soul  and  frame 
The  times  when  I  remember  to  have  been 
Joyful  and  free  from  blame.'* 

The  odor  of  the  sweet  flowers  brought  her  to  that  happy 
time  before  cruel  revenge  had  awoke  in  her  heart,  and  had 
driven  her  to  that  hurried,  desperate  marriage. 

Still,  that  morning — she  did  not  quite  understand  why 
— life  seemed  to  have  a  new  interest  for  her.  Sir  Oscar 
had  mentioned  a  book  which  he  recommended  her  to  read, 
and  she  was  anxious  to  do  so.  When  breakfast  was  over 
she  hastened  to  the  library,  and  when  Lady  St.  Norman 
sought  her,  some  time  afterward,  she  found  her  reading, 
with  flushed  face  and  brightened  eyes. 

"  You  are  growing  quite  studious,  Ethel,"  said  Lady 
St.  Norman. 

"  Sir  Oscar  Charlcote  told  me  that  I  should  like  this 
book,  and  I  find  it  most  amusing." 

Then  she  wondered  why  she  blushed,  and  Lady  St, 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  215 

Norman  was  too  wise  to  make  the  least  comment  or  evea 

smile. 

******* 

Lord  St.  Norman  determined  upon  giving  a  dinner  at 
Richmond,  a  species  of  entertainment  in  which  he  took 
great  delight.  It  was  a  small,  select,  but  very  happy  party, 
and  Sir  Oscar  was  one  of  the  guests  invited. 

Ethel  was  pleased  when  she  heard  that  Sir  Oscar  was 
going.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  felt  even  the  least  in- 
terest in  any  party ;  but  she  had  begun  to  experience  some 
degree  of  pleasure  in  the  baronet's  society.  She  enjoyed 
his  conversation.  She  felt,  in  some  vague  way,  that  she 
had  found  a  friend — one  whom  she  liked,  upon  whom  she 
could  rely.  She  admired  his  brave  way  of  speaking,  his 
bright,  fearless  thoughts,  the  true  nobility  that  pervaded 
every  word. 

"  I  am  glad  that  I  have  found  a  friend,"  the  girl 
thought,  "  there  is  not  much  left  to  me  in  life,  but  this  will 
be  a  real  interest — a  real  pleasure." 

She  felt  better  than  she  had  felt  since  that  fatal  day  at 
St.  Ina's,  when  she  had  exchanged  her  happiness,  her 
freedom,  and  her  name  for  chains  and  a  wedding-ring.  For 
the  first  time  for  many  long  months  she  opened  her  heart 
to  the  sunshine  of  happiness.  She  let  her  sorrow  and  her 
despair  fall  in  the  background,  and  the  effect  upon  her  was 
marvellous.  She  felt  dazed  and  giddy,  as  one  who,  having 
been  long  caged  in  darkness  and  gloom,  is  suddenly 
brought  into  the  full,  clear  light  of  day.  For  the  first  time 
she  took  an  interest  in  the  pleasures  offered  to  her,  and 
went  so  far  as  to  ask  Lady  St.  Norman  about  a  dress  for 
the  fete. 

It  was  a  very  beautiful  day — the  sun  was  shining,  the 
air  was  warm,  soft,  and  full  of  fragrance.  Sir  Oscar,  ac- 
cording to  arrangement,  was  to  drive  down  to  Richmond 
with  Lord  St.  Norman.  Ethel  looked  more  beautiful  than 


2 1 6  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

usual  ;  the  fresh,  fragrant  air  brought  a  soft  flush  to  hei 
face  and  brightened  the  lovely  eyes.  Her  dress,  too,  was 
perfection — a  pretty  blue  and  white — and  she  wore  one  of 
the  most  coquettish  of  bonnets.  The  beautifully  curved 
lips  were  parted  with  a  smile,  such  as  had  not  lingered 
there  since  she  had  been  mistress  of  Fountayne.  She  did 
not  know  why  she  felt  so  happy,  so  light  of  heart,  unless  it 
was  that  she  had  made  a  friend.  She  smiled  to  herself  as 
they  drove  along  the  sunny  road. 

"  Friendship  is  supposed  to  be  one  of  the  great  joys  of 
life,"  she  said,  "  and  I  have  completely  overlooked  it.  I 
can  never  have  a  lover,  but  I  thank  Heaven  that  I  have 
found  a  friend." 

That  evening,  when  dinner  was  over,  and  the  elders  of 
the  party  were  discussing  some  excellent  wine,  Ethel  went 
out  on  the  balcony.  The  purple  gloaming  lay  over  the 
land,  the  sky  was  growing  more  darkly  blue,  and  the  stars 
were  beginning  to  gleam.  The  river  ran  lightly  and  swiftly 
by — the  pleasure  boats  were  hastening  down  the  stream 
— the  trees  were  all  luxuriantly  green — the  perfume  of 
flowers  reached  her.  That  balcony  was  a  favorite  resort 
of  hers. 

They  had  been  twice  to  Richmond,  and  each  time  she 
had  spent  the  soft  sweet  twilight  hours  in  watching  the 
beautiful  panorama  of  earth  and  sky  which  could  be  so 
pleasantly  seen  from  there. 

A  beautiful  holy  calm  seemed  to  pervade  the  whole  of 
Nature,  and  Ethel  felt  that  she  could  enjoy  it.  Hitherto 
she  been  a  prey  to  her  own  bitter  thoughts,  her  own  de- 
spair ;  now  she  had  found  a  friend.  Heaven  and  earth 
seemed  fairer  for  this,  that  she  had  found  a  friend. 

Her  beautiful  face  was  softened  into  tenderness  as  she 
sat  there  in  the  starlight.  Was  there  really  any  brightness, 
any  music  left  on  earth  for  her  ?  Yes — for  she  had  found 
a  friend. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


217 


Ethel  was  pure  of  heart  and  guileless  of  soul  as  a  little 
child  sleeping  in  its  mother's  arms.  There  was  not  the 
faintest  idea  of  wrong  in  her  mind  ;  and,  even  as  once  be- 
fore she  had  mistaken  fancy  for  love,  so  she  now  mistook 
the  dawn  of  love  for  friendship. 

It  was  no.  surprise  to  her  when  Sir  Oscar,  parting  the 
heavy  hangings  that  screened  the  window,  came  out  to  her. 
He  stood  in  silence  by  her  side  for  a  few  minutes,  and,  in 
some  vague  way  that  she  could  not  understand,  it  seemed 
as  though  his  presence  made  the  beauty  of  the  scene  com- 
plete. 

"  You  are  looking  brighter  and  better  to-day,  Miss  St. 
Norman,"  he  said.  "  I  am  so  pleased.  I  think  you  have 
been  following  my  advice/' 

"  I  have,"  she  acknowledged  freely.  "  I  have  read  the 
book  you  mentioned  to  me,  and  it  has  done  me  good." 

"  I  knew  it  would.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  understand 
Miss  St.  Norman,  what  it  is  that  has  given  you,  in  the 
brightest  part  of  your  youth,  such  gloomy  ideas  of  life." 

He  saw  her  beautiful  face  grow  pale ;  he  saw  in  the 
starlight  how  suddenly  the  shadow  came  into  her  beautiful 
eyes,  and  he  hastened  to  add, — 

"  I  am  so  glad  that  you  permitted  me  to  advise  you.  To 
use  a  figure  of  speech,  you  seemed  to  be  drifting  down  a 
stream.  My  hands  are  strong  ;  let  them  pull  you  back." 

"  I  was  drifting,"  she  confessed  slowly. 

"  And  now  that  is  checked — you  are  learning  to  take 
pleasure  where  you  can  find  it,"  he  pursued. 

"  Yes,"  she  assented,  with  a  little  low  laugh  that  fell 
like  softest  music  on  his  ear.  "  I  find  pleasure  here  to- 
night." 

He  watched  her  in   silence,  thinking  to  himself  that 
earth  had  nothing  one-half  so  fair  as  this  beautiful,  grace- ' 
ful  girl,     Rousing  himself  from  the  glamour  that  seemed 


2 1 8  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

to  be  falling  over  him,  Sir  Oscar  began  to  talk  to  her. 
The  poetry  of  the  hour  seemed  to  animate  him. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Sir  Oscar,  slowly,  "  how  many  people 
have  sat  in  this  balcony,  happy  as  we  are,  and  what  has 
become  of  them  ? " 

"  That  is  rather  a  wide  field  for  speculation,"  she 
.remarked. 

"  Yes — but  I  think  the  place  is  rather  celebrated.  You 
have  heard  of  Lord  Daybrook,  who  murdered  his  wife  in  a 
fit  of  jealousy,  and  afterwards  killed  himself  ? " 

"  I  have  heard  of  him,"  replied  Ethel. 

"  It  is  said  that  he  made  the  unhappy  lady  an  offer  of 
marriage  in  this  very  balcony.  Think  of  the  tragical  end 
of  that  love  story  !  Then  I  have  heard  of  two  young  lovers 
w.hose  parents  were  not  willing  for  them  to  marry,  and 
they  met  here  to  bid  each  other  farewell.  Think  of  the  hope, 
the  despair,  the  love  and  the  sorrow  that  have  been  ex- 
perienced here  ! " 

She  was  looking  intently  at  the  gleaming  stars. 

"I  can  imagine  it  all,"  she  responded,  "but  it  gives 
me  strange  thoughts.  Those  who  loved  each  other  so  well 
are  dead  and  gone  ;  murder  and  suicide  took  the  place  of 
happiness.  Men's  lives  and  fortune  are  full  of  change — 
Nature  never  changes.  The  lovers  who  sat  here  then  are 
dead,  but  the  stars  are  shining  with  the  same  soft  light,  the 
river  is  rippling  with  the  same  sweet  murmur — man  seems 
small  and  insignificant,  after  all." 

"  Not  quite.  The  time  will  come  when  the  stars  shall 
fall  from  heaven,  and  the  rivers,  shrinking,  disappear  from 
sight ;  but  the  soul  of  man  once  created,  is  immortal." 

"  I  had  forgotten  that,"  she  allowed,  gently. 

One  white  hand  of  hers  lay  on  the  stone  balcony,  so 
white  in  the  starlight  that  it  looked  like  snow.  Sir  Oscar 
laid  his  own  upon  it.  She  did  not  start  nor  shrink — that 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  2 1 9 

warm,  gentle  clasp  seemed  like  a  promise  of  protection  to 
her. 

"  Miss  St.  Norman,"  he  said,  gently,  "  will  you  enter 
into  a  compact  with  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  willingly." 

"  Let  us  be  friends — I  mean,  not  merely  acquaintances, 
but  friends,  in  the  highest,  best,  and  noblest  sense  of  the 
word." 

Her  face  flushed  with  delight ;  he  saw  the  beautiful 
color  spread  over  it. 

"  Friends,"  he  continued,  "  through  life — never  to  lose 
sight  of  each  other  again — your  pleasures,  pains,  hopes, 
joys  and  sorrows  to  be  mine." 

"  Is  that  friendship  ?  "  she  asked,  gently. 

"  Yes,  the  noblest  and  the  best — the  friendship  that 
strengthens  all  that  is  highest,  that  helps  one  to  live  and 
die  worthily — friendship  that  is  patient,  tender,  and  true  ; 
that  stands  as  a  shield,  that  is  as  firm  as  a  rock,  and  be- 
lieves no  evil.  Miss  St.  Norman,  will  you  join  in  such  a 
compact  of  friendship  with  me  ?  " 

She  looked  up  at  him  half  shyly. 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me  ? "  she  inquired. 

"  Because  I  am  irresistibly  attracted  to  you,"  he  acknowl- 
edged ;  "  and  I  long  with  all  my  heart  and  soul  to  be  your 
friend.  Will  you  promise  ? " 

"  It  is  a  very  serious  promise,"  she  remarked. 

"  I  know  it ;  but  it  is  one  that  will  make  me  happy, 
Miss  St.  Norman." 

"  Then  I  give  it  to  you  "  she  said.  "  I  promise  to  be 
your  friend." 

"  Thank  you  "  he  returned,  gratefully  ;  and  then  silence 
ensued  again. 

He  was  the  first  to  break  it. 

"  You  will  think  I  presume  upon  your  kindness,  Miss 
St,  Norman/'  he  said,  "  if  I  ask  something  more." 


220  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  I  shall  not  think  so,"  confessed  Ethel. 

"Then,  just  once,  on  this  fair  summer  night,  let  me 
hear  you  call  me  'dear  friend.'  Say  those  two  words  to 
me,  and  I  shall  be  content." 

She  repeated  them,  and  Sir  Oscar  Charlcote  thought 
no  utterance  had  ever  been  so  sweet. 

All  night  Ethel  thought  of  the  simple  words ;  they 
seemed  to  rest  in  her  heart,  to  give  her  greater  peace  than 
she  had  known  for  a  long  time,  and  she  was  grateful 
enough  to  kneel  and  thank  Heaven  that  she  had  at  last 
found  a  gleam  of  light  in  the  darkness — that  she  had  found 
such  a  friend. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  2  2  f 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

ETHEL  was  always  at  her  best  with  Sir  Oscar.  He  had 
the  power  of  bringing  out  all  that  was  noblest  in  her.  Her 
intellect,  fancy,  imagination,  all  seemed  at  the  highest  when 
she  was  talking  to  him.  She  never  looked  so  beautiful  or 
talked  so  well  as  with  him-.  Her  mind  seemed  to  answer 
to  his,  her  quick,  light,  vivid  fancy  to  respond  to  every 
word  of  his.  She  began  to  look  forward  to  seeing  him  as 
one  of  the  pleasures  of  her  existence.  One  of  her  earliest 
thoughts  in  the  mornings  would  be,  "  Shall  I  see  him  to- 
day ?  Where  will  it  be  ?  What  will  he  say  ?  And  she 
reached  this  stage  so  unconsciously  that  she  would  have 
been  surprised  if  any  one  had  said  to  her,  "  How  very 
much  and  how  often  you  think  of  Sir  Oscar  Charlcote  !  " 
She  thought,  in  her  simplicity,  that  it  was  happiness  at 
having  found  a  friend — a  real  friend — that  was  making  life 
so  much  more  bright  for  her. 

The  Duchess  of  Clanbrook  gave  a  garden-party,  at 
which  Ethel  was  queen.  Lady  St.  Norman  smiled  to  see 
how  she  was  beginning  to  take  an  interest  in  her  toilet. 
She  fancied  that  the  dark  cloud  which  had  so  long  rested 
on  the  girl's  life  was  lifted  at  last.  Ethel  chose  a  very 
beautiful  dress  and  a  most  becoming  bonnet.  She  went 
to  the  gathering,  hoping  she  should  see  Sir  Oscar  there. 
It  would  be  pleasant  to  while  away  the  summer  hours  by 
his  side — her  friend — that  dear  friend  whose  care  for  her 
made  her  so  happy. 

She  went.  There  was  a  large  crowd  of  fashionable 
people  present,  and  the  scene  was  one  of  great  beauty 
and  animation.  The  party  was  held  on  a  large  and  exceed- 
ingly beautiful  lawn,  where  great  cedar-trees  made  pleasant 


222  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

shade,  rare  flowers  gave  out  sweetest  odors,  and  pretty 
fountains  sent  their  rippling  spray  high  in  the  sunlight.  It 
was  a  striking  scene — one  not  easily  forgotten. 

The  fairest  face  in  that  brilliant  throng  was  that  of 
Ethel  Gordon.  No  sooner  did  she  appear  than  she  was 
surrounded  by  a  court  of  admirers.  She  talked  for  a  short 
time  with  more  than  her  usual  animation,  hoping  and  ex- 
pecting every  moment  that  Sir  Oscar  would  appear ;  but 
time  passed  on  and  he  did  not  come.  Then  her  high 
spirits  failed  her.  She  made  her  escape  from  her  admirers 
and  wandered  into  one  of  the  pretty  ferneries.  Here  all 
was  cool,  green,  and  pleasant.  She  lingered.  The  waters 
fell  with  a  soft  rippling  sound,  the  ferns  stirred  lightly  in 
the  wind.  She  sat  down  to  enjoy  the  pretty  solitude. 

All  at  once  she  saw  Sir  Oscar.  He  was  walking  through 
the  fernery,  and  had  suddenly  caught  a  glimpse  of  her. 
His  face  brightened,  the  grave,  luminous  smile  she  liked 
so  much  came  over  it.  He  advanced  eagerly  to  her. 

"  I  have  been  looking  everywhere  for  you,  Miss  St. 
Norman,"  he  said.  "  I  was  just  thinking  of  going  away, 
fearing  you  were  not  here." 

"  The  crowd  is  so  great,"  she  observed.  "  I  have  been 
on  the  lawn,  but  I  did  not  see  you." 

He  sat  down  by  her  side.  If  she  had  been  wiser  she 
would  have  understood  herself  better.  Everything  seemed 
to  change  when  he  appeared.  The  sunshine  was  brighter, 
a  fairer  green  came  on  the  grass,  the  flowers  took  rarer 
colors,  the  birds  sang  more  sweetly,  the  whole  aspect  of 
heaven  and  earth  seemed  changed  to  her — and  yet  it 
never,  even  ever  so  faintly,  dawned  across  her  mind  that 
this  was  love. 

She  was  surprised  to  find  that  an  hour  had  passed  since 
he  appeared — it  seemed  to  her  only  a  few  minutes. 

"  I  think,"  she  said  to  him,  with  a  smile,  "  that  you 
have  the  faculty  of  making  time  fly ;  I  had  no  idea  that 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


223 


we  had  passed  a  whole  hour  in  listening  to  the  music  of 
that  cascade. " 

"  I  may  make  the  same  complaint."  he  responded — 
"  hours  in  your  society  take  unto  themselves  wings  and  fly." 

She  laughed,  and  rose  from  her  seat,  yet  she  did  not 
like  going  away  from  the  cool,  fresh  ferns. 

"This  seems  to  be  the  pleasantest  part  of  the  grounds," 
she  said  ;  "  I  admire  ferns  very  much." 

"  So  do  I,"  he  remarked,  "  but  I  have  never  admired 
them  so  much  as  to-day." 

And  then  they  walked  back  to  the  lawn  together.  Many 
admiring  glances  followed  them  ;  people  whispered  to  each 
other  that  sooner  or  later  that  would  be  a  match. 

"  I  can  understand  now,"  said  one  lady  to  another^ 
*'  why  Miss  St.  Norman  refused  the  Duke  of  Southmead." 

"  It  was  not  for  Sir  Oscar's  sake,'1  was  the  rejoinder. 
"  She  had  not  even  seen  him  when  the  Duke  of  Southmead 
left  London/' 

The  comments  made  did  not  reach  her  ears — and  it  was 
well  for  Sir  Oscar  that  they  did  not.  He  saw  that  the 
pretty  legend  of  friendship  sufficed  for  her.  She  was  un- 
conscious of  aught  else.  He  loved  her  with  a  strong, 
deep,  earnest  love.  He  had  never  been  charmed  by  the 
fair  face  of  a  woman  before,  he  had  that  most  rare  gift  to 
offer  her — the  first  love  of  his  heart.  He  knew  that  by  her 
side,  no  matter  what  troubles  came,  life  would  be  one  long 
course  of  happiness — one  long  unbroken  dream  of  delight. 
He  knew  also  that,  if  she  refused  him,  all  that  this  world 
could  offer  would  not  atone  to  him  for  the  loss. 

His  great  love  made  him  cautious.  If  he  had  had  less  at 
stake,  he  would  have  been  rasher  and  more  daring;  he 
would  have  told  her  at  once  that  he  loved  her,  and  have 
asked  her  to  be  his  wife.  Love  made  him  prudent.  He 
knew  that  some  of  the  most  eligible  men  in  England  had 
tried  in  vain  to  win  her  favor.  He  could  not  bear  the 


224 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


thought  of  losing  her,  so  he  called  caution  to  his  aid.  He 
would  not  startle  her  by  speaking  too  soon  of  his  love  ;  he 
would  give  her  plenty  of  time  to  grow  accustomed  to  him, 

He  was  not  vain,  but  he  did  think  she  was  beginning  to 
like  him.  She  seemed  more  at  home,  more  at  ease  with 
him  than  with  any  one  else.  He  thought  to  himself  that, 
if  needful,  he  would  wait  long  years  in  silence  for  her — 
she  was  so  dear,  so  precious,  so  well  worth  winning. 

He  said  nothing  to  her  of  love.  Like  a  cautious  gen- 
eral, he  advanced  by  degrees.  He  was  content  for  a  time 
with  having  won  her  liking  ;  he  wanted  to  accustom  her  to 
his  society — to  teach  her  to  rely  upon  him  ;  and  he  suc- 
ceeded. Slowly  and  gradually  a  new  life  opened  to  her, 
and  she  was  quite  unconscious  of  it.  The  old  interest  that 
she  felt  in  poetry  and  art,  her  passionate  love  of  nature, 
her  animation,  all  seemed  to  return  to  her. 

"  I  am  much  happier,"  she  would  say  to  herself,  "  be- 
cause I  have  found  a  friend." 

She  was  like  a  child  who  sleeps  serenely  in  the  midst 
of  fair  and  fragrant  flowers,  never  seeing  the  crested  head 
of  the  snake  that  is  about  to  sting.  She  was  so  utterly 
unconscious  that  this  vague  happiness,  this  delicious  calm 
came  from  the  dawn  of  love,  that  she  would  say  to  herself  : 

"  Now  that  I  have  found  true  friendship,  I  shall  never 
need  love.  There  will  be  no  danger  for  me." 

Her  idea  of  love  was  something  all  tumult,  all  tempest- 
uous despair.  She  did  not  imagine  it  to  be  this  golden  calm, 
this  beauteous  harmony  which  seemed  to  prevade  heart 
and  soul,  this  new  light  which,  dawning  on  her  life,  made 
it  inexpressibly  sweet,  this  golden  glamour  which  made 
earth  and  sky  ten  thousand  times  fairer.  Looking  at  her 
face,  she  did  not  understand  why,  day  by  day,  it  grew 
fairer,  sweeter,  and  younger — why  her  eyes  grew  bright  as 
Stars,  and  her  lips  learned  once  more  to  smile. 

"I  am  learning  to  forget  my  trouble,"  she  said;  "I 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


22S 


am  beginning  to  live  it  down.  Ah,  me  !  what  fables  poets 
sing  !  They  tell  us  life  is  all  barren  without  love.  I  do 
not  find  it  so  :  love  is  a  torment,  friendship  is  all  joy  and 
no  pain.  While  I  can  have  that,  *  love  may  linger,  love 
may  die.'  I  am  indifferent." 

She  little  dreamed  how  she  was  mistaking  one  for  the 
other,  nor  how  the  love  that  she  scorned  and  despised  was 
silently,  surely  winning  her,  and  making  earth  all  bright 
for  her. 

Before  the  season  was  over  she  had  many  eligible  offers, 
but  to  Lord  St.  Norman's  surprise,  she  refused  them  all. 

"  I  believe,"  he  said  to  his  wife,  "  that  she  likes  Sir 
Oscar  best  of  all,  and  that  he  is  waiting  to  be  sure  before 
he  risks  asking  the  question." 

In  this  opinion  Lady  St.  Norman  did  not  quite  coincide. 


226  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE  season  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  Lord  St.  Nor- 
man began  to  think  it  was  high  time  that  he  and  his  left 
town.  He  expressed  his  wish  to  his  wife,  and  she  was  anx- 
ious that  it  should  be  carried  out. 

When  Ethel  heard  it,  her  thoughts  flew  at  once  to  Sir 
Oscar.  By  this  time  he  had  become  so  completely  part  of 
her  life  that  she  did  not  know  what  that  life  would  be 
without  him.  It  was  he  who  directed  her  reading,  who 
chose  her  books,  who  helped  to  complete  her  art  education, 
who  taught  her  the  beauty  of  goodness,  of  courage,  and  of 
patience,  who  made  all  the  brightness  of  her  life.  Now, 
for  the  first  time  since  she  had  begun  to  know  the  value  of 
his  friendship,  she  was  to  be  separated  from  him,  and  he 
was  to  pass  out  of  her  life. 

Still  the  pain  she  suffered  did  not  open  her  eyes.  She 
believed  she  was  grieved  to  lose  her  friend,  and  in  that 
friend  saw  no  lover.  Sir  Oscar  had  long  foreseen  that  this 
separation  must  take  place,  and  he  had  made  his  arrange* 
ments. 

"  If  I  can  but  induce  her  to  write  to  me,"  he  thought 
to  himself.  "  I  shall  have  gained  as  great  a  point  as  when 
I  won  her  promise  to  be  my  friend." 

"  Lord  St.  Norman  tells  me  you  are  going  away  next 
week.  How  I  shall  miss  you!  "  he  said  to  her.  "It  will 
seem  to  me  as  though  one-half  of  my  life  were  gone." 

They  had  met  at  Lady  Casteldine's  concert,  and  under 
cover  of  a  grand  overture  Sir  Oscar  pleaded  his  cause. 
Ethel  looked  very  lovely.  As  he  glanced  at  her  he  could 
not  help  thinking  how  changed  she  was  from  the  time  when 
he  had  first  seen  her.  The  listlessness  and  melancholy 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  227 

had  vanished  from  her  face,  her  eyes  were  bright,  there 
was  a  look  of  hope  and  happiness  about  her  which  had 
been  previously  wanting.  Her  dress,  too,  was,  as  usual, 
perfection — white  silk,  with  trimmings  of  gold  fringe  ;  a 
pomegranate  blossom  was  in  the  coils  of  her  rich  brown 
hair. 

"  You  never  carry  flowers,"  he  said  to  her  suddenly ; 
"  every  other  lady  in  the  room  has  a  bouquet.  You  always 
prefer  a  fan.  How  is  it  ?  " 

He  saw  a  shadow  fall  over  her  face.  How  could  she 
tell  him  that  she  never  carried  flowers  in  her  hands  without 
thinking  of  that  fatal  summer  morning  when  she  had  gath- 
ered the  passion-flowers  wet  with  dew.  He  saw  in  a  mo- 
ment that  his  words  had  aroused  some  sad  and  unpleasant 
memory  in  her  mind,  and  he  hastened  to  make  her  forget 
them. 

"  How  I  shall  miss  you,"  he  repeated.  "  I  do  not  like 
to  think  of  the  time  coming,  when  I  shall  see  you  no 
longer." 

"  Life  is  all  meeting  and  parting,"  she  said,  "  even  as 
it  is  all  pleasure  and  pain." 

Yet  her  lips  quivered  as  she  spoke,  and  her  beautiful 
eyes  grew  dim  with  unshed  tears.  Sir  Oscar  looked  wist- 
fully at  her.  The  impulse  and  the  longing  were  strong 
upon  him  to  take  her  hands  in  his  own  and  tell  her  the  story 
of  his  love — tell  her  how  passionately  he  loved  her  ;  but 
he  restrained  himself. 

"  She  is  sorry  to  lose  me,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  I  can 
see  that ;  but  I  must  not  startfe  her.  She  is  like  a  shy, 
bright,  beautiful  wild  bird.  I  must  not  startle  her." 

So  he  sat  and  watched  her  with  wistful,  longing  loving 
eyes  ;  but  no  word  of  that  which  filled  his  heart  passed  his 
lips. 

"  Miss  St.  Norman,"  he  said  suddenly,  "you  have  been 
very  kind  to  me  ;  you  have  promised  to  be  my  friend — and 


22g  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

I  believe  that  nothing  but  death  will  ever  sever  the  bonds 
of  our  friendship." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his. 

"  You  are  right,"  she  asserted  ;  "  nothing  but  death." 

"  I  am  going  to  ask  something  else  from  you.  I  have 
been  so  accustomed  to  discuss  my  opinions  and  to  argue 
with  you  that  I  shall  be  quite  lost  after  your  departure. 
Will  you  permit  me  occasionally  to  write  to  you  ?  " 

The  jewelled  fan  that  she  held  trembled  ;  the  question 
startled  her.  Writing  seemed  to  be  something  different 
from  their  easy,  pleasant  conversations. 

"  I  will  promise  not  to  bore  you  too  often,"  he  added. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  fresh,  sweet  smile. 

*'  I  shall  be  very  pleased  with  the  arrangement,"  she 
said,  simply.  "  It  will  be  a  pleasure  to  receive  your  letters, 
and  a  pleasure  to  answer  them  ;  but  it  will  not  be  like  see- 
ing and  talking  to  you." 

He  sighed  as  he  thought  how  very  different  it  would  be. 
He  would  have  been  better  pleased  if  she  had  been  less 
frank  and  more  embarrassed — it  did  not  look  like  love. 

"  Then  you  will  write  to  me  ?  Will  you  tell  me  what 
you  think  and  all  that  you  do,  just  as  though  you  were 
speaking  to  me  ?  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied  ;  "  and  then,  when  we  meet  again, 
it  will  seem  as  though  there  had-been  no  interruption  to 
our  friendship." 

"  Some  day,  when  I  think  I  shall  be  welcome," 
-said  Sir  Oscar.  "I  shall  hope  to  see  Norman's  Keep. 
They  tell  me  it  is  one  of  the  grandest  old  places  in 
England." 

"  It  is  well  worth  a  visit,  if  you  have  never  seen  it," 
she  observed ;  and  then  Sir  Oscar  said  no  more. 

He  bade  her  good-by  one  evening  a  little  later  on. 

"  My  desire  to  see  Norman's  Keep  is  increasing,"  he 
said  to  her>  with  a  smile. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  229 

"  We  are  going  to  Wales  for  a  short  time,"  she  an- 
nounced. 

"  And  I  am  obliged  to  go  to  Scotland  on  some  pressing 
business,"  he  returned ;  "  but  I  hope,  before  the  summer 
is  ended,  that  we  shall  meet  again." 

She  had  not  thought  that  she  should  miss  him  so  much. 
There  was  a  great  blank  in  her  life,  and  still  her  eyes  were 
not 'opened  to  the  true  state  of  things  ;  though  his  absence 
was  like  a  keen,  sharp  pain  to  her,  she  never  dreamed  that 
she  loved  him. 

Her  heart  was  warm  with  memories  of  him.  Nothing 
could  have  fostered  and  increased  her  love  so  greatly  as 
going  away  from  the  noise  of  the  world  into  solitude,  where 
she  had  ample  leisure  to  think  of  every  word  he  had  uttered, 
every  expression  she  had  seen  on  his  face — where  she  had 
nothing  to  do  save  to  indulge  in  romantic  dreams. 

Ethel  did  not  look  forward  ;  she  never  thought  of  the 
time  when  Sir  Oscar  would  want  a  wife  of  his  own — would 
marry  and  devote  himself  to  his  own  household.  In  her 
dreams  they  were  always  to  be  as  they  were  then — friends, 
true,  sincere,  affectionate  friends  ;  they  were  to  write  to 
each  other  constantly,  to  meet  as  often  as  possible,  yet  to 
be  friends — nothing  more,  nothing  less. 

Lord  St.  Norman  and  his  family  remained  for  some 
weeks  in  Wales,  and  then  they  returned  to  Norman's  Keep. 
Ethel  wras  pleased  that  her  father  had  decided  upon  mak- 
ing that  their  principal  residence.  Fountayne  was  full  of 
sad  memories  for  her — memories  of  the  time  when  "  she 
had  been  joyful  and  free  from  blame." 

At  Norman's  Keep  everything  was  new  and  strange ; 
the  blight  of  her  secret  had  been  on  her  when  she  first 
came  thither — revisiting  it  brought  no  smart  of  pain. 

They  had  been  there  for  some  few  weeks  ;  golden, 
glorious  August  was  in  the  height  of  its  loveliness,  the 
corn  stood  ripe  in  the  meadows,  the  fruit  hung  upon  the 


230  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

trees,  the  haze  of  sunlight  and  the  smile  of  summer  lay 
over  the  land. 

One  morning  Lord  St.  Norman  received  a  letter  which 
appeared  to  interest  him  greatly ;  he  read  it  and  passed  it 
over  to  his  wife.  She  also  read  it  without  comment. 

"  We  had  better  not  mention  it  to  her,  I  think,"  said 
Lord  St.  Norman  to  his  wife  ;  "  if  he  takes  her  by  surprise 
he  may  win  some  kind  word  from  her." 

But  Lady  St.  Norman  did  not  agree  with  him. 

"  Ethel  is  proud  and  sensitive,  Leonard ;  she  would 
wonder  why  you  had  not  told  her — and  that  very  fact 
might  make  her  angry  with  him." 

So,  after  breakfast  Lord  St.  Norman  said  carelessly, — 

"  Ethel,  an  old  friend  of  ours  is  coming  to  visit  us." 

"  Who  is  that  papa  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Sir  Oscar  Charlcote  ;  he  will  be  here  some  time  to- 
day, I  expect." 

He  saw  her  beautiful  face  flush  deepest  crimson,  and 
he  smiled  again,  for  he  knew  that  Sir  Oscar  was  coming  to 
a?k  her  to  be  his  wife. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  231 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

ETHEL  listened  to  her  father's  announcement  as  to  the 
speedy  arrival  of  Sir  Oscar  Charlcote,  but  offered  no  word 
of  reply.  A  deep,  sudden  gladness  took  possession  of 
her.  She  could  not  have  expressed  it  in  speech  ;  she 
could  not  even  understand  it.  It  was  a  sudden,  deep, 
great  gladness  that  stirred  the  depths  of  her  heart,  flushed 
her  face,  and  brightened  her  eyes.  He  was  coming.  He 
was  not  her  lover — only  her  friend — yet  all  earth  and 
heaven  seemed  the  fairer  for  his  coming.  There  was  joy 
in  her  heart  such  as  she  had  never  known  before. 

"  Ethel,  will  you  come  with  me  ?  "  said  Lady  St.  Nor- 
man. "  I  am  going  over  to  Denham's  ? " 

But  Ethel  did  not  wish  any  one  to  see  her  face  just 
then ;  there  was  a  light  upon  it,  which  keen  eyes  would 
understand,  of  sudden,  irrepressible  gladness. 

"  Pray  excuse  me,  Helen,"  she  replied ;  I  am  going  for 
a  walk." 

As  she  spoke  she  passed  out  on  to  the  fragrant  lawn 
and  away  into  the  summer  woods.  She  wanted  to  be  alone 
to  think  over  this  great  sudden  gleam  of  happiness. 
Nature  smiled  on  her — the  silence  that  was  yet  so  full  of 
music  pleased  and  soothed  her.  He  was  coming,  this 
friend  of  hers,  who  made  life  so  much  more  bright ;  and 
all  Nature  seemed  to  rejoice  with  her.  No  warning 
came  to  her  that  this  keen  rapture,  this  sweet,  subtle  hap- 
piness, was  love. 

She  did  not  look  beyond  that  day.  Before  the  sun  had 
set  she  would  have  seen  him  again,  would  have  heard  him 
speak,  would  have  listened  to  his  voice  ;  her  happiness 
could  go  no  farther.  She  had  not  the  least  thought  of 
wrong ;  to  her  it  was  so  settled  a  matter  that  she  and  love 


2$2  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

were  to  be  strangers  for  ever  that  she  never  gave  a  thought 
to  the  possibility  of  its  entering  her  heart.  She  had  set- 
tled it  so  long  since  with  herself  that  she  was  to  fly  from 
love,  that  she  did  not  know  love  had  already  taken  posses- 
sion of  her  heart,  and  was  not  to  be  driven  away.  Her 
shy,  startled,  sweet  happiness  might  have  told  her,  but  it 
did  not — it  might  have  warned  her,  but  it  did  not.  She 
went  blindfolded  to  her  fate. 

The  hour  she  spent  that  morning  in  the  summer  woods 
was  perhaps  one  of  the  happiest  in  her  life  ;  it  was  full  of 
hope  and  sweetness — a  vague,  delicious  happiness  that 
she  did  not  understand,  but  which  was  to  bring  fatal  knowl- 
edge to  her.  All  day  she  looked  so  bright  and  blithe  that 
Lord  St.  Norman  smiled  to  himself  at  the  expression  of 
her  face. 

"  I  must  say  nothing,"  he  thought  to  himself ;  "  but 
there  can  be  no  mistake — she  is  pleased  at  his  coming." 

All  day  long  sweet  snatches  of  half-forgotten  songs 
came  to  her  lips.  More  than  once  she  found  herself  relaps- 
ing into  her  old  fantastic  sway  over  the  household — more 
than  once  she  found  herself  wondering  at  the  immense 
amount  of  happiness  life  contained,  even  when  it  seemed 
blighted  for  ever. 

It  was  significant  of  her  state  of  mind  that  for  once  the 
dark  shadow  was  lost,  or  rather  was  absorbed  in  the  golden 
light  that  had  fallen  over  her.  The  bright  face  that  smiled 
at  her  from  her  mirror  amazed  her  with  its  glorious  loveli- 
ness. She  chose  a  dress  of  pale  blue  and  white,  which  suited 
her  to  perfection.  She  wore  a  suite  of  jewels  which  Lord  St. 
Norman  had  given  her.  She  took  the  greatest  pains,  the 
greatest  pleasure,  in  enhancing  her  loveliness — all  to  look 
fair  in  his  eyes — all  to  look  beautiful  for  the  man  who  was 
only  her  friend,  though  his  coming  filled  her  with  the  ut- 
most happiness  and  delight. 

Sir  Oscar  had  not  settled  any  precise  time  for  his  arrival 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  233 

— he  did  not  reach  Norman's  Keep  until  the  afternoon;  still 
the  day  did  not  seem  long  to  Ethel.  The  hours  had  golden 
wings ;  he  was  coming — he  would  be  there  before  sunset. 
That  thought  filled  her  with  patience. 

She  was  standing  by  the  window,  talking  to  Lady  St 
Norman,  when  he  did  arrive — standing  in  one  of  those 
grand  statutesque  attitudes  that  always  seemed  to  be  nat- 
ural for  her.  A  servant  announced  "  Sir  Oscar  Charlcote." 
There  was  no  need  to  ask  if  she  loved  him  ;  a  crimson 
blush  burned  her  face — a  thousand  welcomes  brightened 
in  her  beautiful  eyes — her  lips  trembled  as  she  greeted 
him — and  the  white  jewelled  hand  trembled  as  she  laid  it  in 
his.  There  was  no  need  to  ask  if  she  loved  him  ;  it  was 
as  though  a  sudden  flood  of  sunlight  had  fallen  round  her 
and  dazzled  her. 

Lady  St.  Norman  smiled. 

"She  loves  him,  and  she  will  be  happy  at  last,"  she 
thought  to  herself. 

Ethel  murmured  some  few  words  as  Sir  Oscar  stood 
holding  her  hands  in  his.  She  had  not  heard  what  he  said. 
She  had  looked  for  one  moment  into  his  face,  and  then, 
for  her  life  had  grown  suddenly  and  beautifully  complete. 

They  were  not  alone — a  cousin  of  Lady  St.  Norman, 
Miss  Seagrave,  was  visiting  at  Norman's  Keep  :  and  young 
Squire  Raymond,  the  wealthy  owner  of  Raymond's  Court, 
was  also  spending  a  few  days  there.  He  had  fallen  in  love 
with  bright,  proud,  beautiful  Ethel,  but  he  no  more  dared 
to  say  so  than  he  would  have  dared  to  claim  the  throne  and 
cro*wn  of  England.  He  only  watched  her  at  a  distance,  and 
grew  crimson  and  uncomfortable  whenever  a  stray  glance  of 
hers  fell  near  him. 

They  were  a  very  happy  party.  Refreshments  were 
served  to  Sir  Oscar  in  the  dining-room,  and  then  he  had  an, 
interview  of  five  minutes'  duration  with  Lord  St.  Norman, 
who  concluded  it  by  saying, — 


€ 34  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  You  not  only  have  my  consent  and  my  approbation, 
but  the  best  wishes  of  my  heart  are  with  you  ;  my  dearest 
hope  is  for  your  success." 

Sir  Oscar  hardly  doubted  that  he  would  be  successful. 
He  had  watched  Ethel  keenly,  he  had  waited  patiently, 
and  he  believed  that  she  preferred  him  to  any  one  else. 

They  sat  in  the  drawing-room — the  windows  wide  open, 
all  the  glory  of  flowers  and  trees  spread  before  them ;  the 
sweet  summer  wind  that  stirred  the  blossoms  so  faintly 
came  in  laden  with  perfume  ;  the  sunlight  lay  warm  and 
golden  on  the  grass,  while  from  gardens  and  woods  came 
a  jubilant  sound  of  songs  from  the  birds. 

Miss  Seagrave  had  been  singing,  and  Sir  Oscar,  watch- 
ing the  beautiful  face  of  the  girl  he  loved,  said  to  himself 
that  he  could  bear  this  suspense  no  longer.  Yet  she  did 
not  know  what  was  shining  in  his  eyes  and  trembling  on 
his  lips. 

"  I  have  heard  much  of  the  grounds  and  flowers  of  Nor- 
man's Keep,"  he  remarked,  suddenly.  "  I  should  much 
like  to  see  them." 

"  I  am  tired,"  said  Lady  St.  Norman  ;  "  but  you  young 
people  could  not  do  better  than  spend  the  evening  out  of 
doors." 

The  hapless  young  squire  thought  he  saw  a  chance  for 
himself,  and  eagerly  suggested  that  they  should  go  at  once  : 
but  one  look  from  Sir  Oscar  one  almost  fierce,  impatient 
frown,  so  startled  him  that  he  turned  at  once  to  Miss  Sea- 
grave,  and  begged  permission  to  escort  her. 

Out  into  the  sweet  summer  evening — the  trees  were 
still,  the  wind  was  hushed.  A  beautiful,  holy  silence 
seemed  to  reign  around.  The  young  squire  was  so  greatly 
distressed  by  what  he  had  read  in  Sir  Oscar's  face  that  he 
became  distracted,  and  when  Miss  Seagrave  asked,  "  Which 
do  you  prefer — the  gardens  or  the  pleasure-grounds  J "  hs 
answered  at  random,  "  Anything — anywhere." 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  235 

Sir  Oscar  and  Ethel  walked  through  the  flower-garden  to 
Ethel's  favorite  retreat.  They  passed  the  beds  of  crimson 
roses,  the  beautiful  heads  of  which  were  drooping  in  the 
rich  wealth  of  their  own  sweetness — passed  the  great 
sheaves  of  white  lilies ;  and  presently  they  reached  the 
greensward  that  led  to  the  lake.  The  sun  was  shining  on 
the  water,  and  the  white  water-lilies  were  floating  on  its, 
deep,  tranquil  breast.  A  beautiful  drooping  cedar  stood 
near  it — so  large  that  many  people  could  sit  under  its  shade. 
There  Ethel  had  her  favorite  seat,  and  there  now  Sir  Oscar 
took  his  place  by  her  side. 

"  This  is  your  favorite  retreat,"  he  remarked,  in  answer 
to  some  observation  of  hers.  "  I  could  have  fancied  you 
thinking  and  dreaming  in  some  such  picturesque  spot. 
Look  at  those  graceful  shadows  on  the  grass  ;  look  at  the 
sunlight,  how  it  falls  through  the  borders.  And  would  not 
one  think  that  the  birds  were  singing  for  joy  ?  Ah,  Miss 
St.  Norman,  for  many  weeks  I  have  been  longing  for  this 
hour ! " 

Looking  up  into  his  brave,  noble  face,  she  saw  some- 
thing there  before  which  her  eyes  drooped,  and  her  heart 
beat  with  happiness  that  was  almost  pain. 

"We  are  such  near  friends  and  dear  friends  now," 
he  continued,  "  that  I  wish  you  would  let  me  call  you  Ethel 
— Miss  St.  Norman  seems  so  formal  and  ceremonious  be 
tween  friends.  May  I  say  Ethel  " 

"Yes/   she  replied,  shyly,  "  if  it  pleases  you." 

"  He  is  my  friend,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  He  may 
surely  call  me  by  my  Christian  name." 

"  It  pleases  me  very  much,"  he  confessed.  "  All  the 
music  in  the  world  is  comprised  in  that  one  word,  l  Ethel/  " 

He  drew  nearer  to  her,  and  took  the  little  white  hands 
in  his  warm  grasp. 

"  Ah,  Ethel — sweet  Ethel — can  you  not  guess  what  has 
brought  me  here  ?  I  could  live  no  longer  without  looking 


236  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

at  your,  face,  my  beautiful  love  !  My  heart  was  hungry 
for  one  sound  of  your  voice — for  I  love  you — I  love  you  as 
surely  no  man  ever  loved  before  !" 

His  voice  seemed  to  die  on  his  lips,  he  found  words 
weak  to  express  the  depth  of  his  gteat  passion. 

"  I  loved  you,  Ethel,  the  moment  that  I  saw  you ;  but 
you  were  so  beautiful,  proud,  you.  seemed  far  above  me. 
I  thought  I  had  won  the  highest  gift  earth  had  to  offer 
when  you  promised  to  be  my  friend.  That  did  not  suffice 
for  long.  I  have  learned  to  love  you,  Ethel,  with  so  great 
an  affection,  so  entire  a  devotion,  that  I  can  no  longer  live 
without  winning  some  love  from  you  in  return/5 

He  looked  in  her  face ;  a  beautiful,  tender  light  shone 
over  it — so  beautiful  that  his  love  conquered  him.  He  bent 
down  and  touched  the  sweet  white  havid  with  his  lips.  Even 
that  did  not  startle  her.  She  had  ^oen  unhappy  for  so 
long,  in  this  great  and  glorious  joy  &V*  for  a  few  moments 
forgot  all  else. 

She  meant  no  wrong  ;  she  did  no  \\rong.  Only  for  3 
time,  for  a  few  fleeting  moments,  hex  it  and  soul  were 
steeped  in  a  trance  of  delight  which  was  W>n  to  be  changed 
into  a  reality  of  sharpest  pain. 

"  I  love  you  so  dearly,  Ethel,"  he  continued,  "  and  I 
am  come  to  lay  my  life  and  my  love  at  your  feet." 

She  made  no  answer ;  not  yet  had  she  roused  herself 
to  the  terrible  reality.  He  drew  the  sweet  face  nearer  to 
him. 

"  You  are  so  beautiful,  my  love,"  he  said,  looking  at 
her  with  shining  eyes  ;  "  no  flower  that  blooms  is  one-half 
so  fair.  You  are  the  loveliest,  the  noblest  of  women.  Ah, 
Ethel !  sweet  Ethel  !  say  you  love  me  !  Only  one  word — 
'  you  love  me  ! ' ' ' 

She  was  not  aroused  yet ;  the  golden  light  had  driven 
the  dark  shadow  away.  He  drew  her  beautiful  head  nearer 
until  it  rested  on  his  breast. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  237 

"  Say  you  love  me,  Ethel,"  he  pursued,  "  and  I  shall  be 
prouder  than  any  emperor." 

If  she  could  have  died  so,  poor  hapless  child,  before 
the  keen  smart  of  pain  brought  her  back  to  the  stern 
reality  of  her  marred  and  blighted  life  ! 

"  Ethel,"  he  resumed,  "  do  not  think  that  I  am  boast- 
ing, but  you  are  my  first  love,  as  you  will  be  my  last.  I 
have  never  sought  smiles  from  a  fair  woman's  face — I 
never  thought  of  love  until  I  saw  you — I  have  never  in- 
dulged in  what  the  world  calls  flirtations  ;  you  are  the 
mistress  of  my  heart  and  soul,  and  they  oh  !  believe  me, 
sweet  ! — have  known  no  other  love,  save  yours." 

She  did  believe  him.  Only  a  few  minutes  longer  was 
her  happy  trance  of  forgetfulness  to  last.  She  believed 
him,  and  in  that  moment  she  knew  how  dearly  and  deeply 
she  loved  him.  It  was  like  a  revelation  to  her.  Suddenly 
her  life  seemed  to  grow  complete  ;  it  was  love,  not  friend" 
ship — the  glorious  dower  of  womanhood  was  hers  at  last, 
the  dower  at  once  so  full  of  greatest  joy  and  greatest  pain. 
It  was  hers,  the  magic  of  love.  She  had  thought  of  it, 
dreamed  of  it,  wondered  over  it,  and  now  it  was  her  very 
own.  She  had  defied  it,  yet  it  had  gladdened  her  heart  all 
unknown  to  herself.  It  was  love  that  had  made  the  world 
seem  so  fair,  that  had  changed  the  colors  of  the  flowers, 
and  had  deepened  the  light  of  the  sun  ;  it  was  love  that 
had  made  her  so  light  of  heart,  so  fair  of  face. 

He  was  watching  her  while  these  thoughts  passed 
through  her  mind  ;  there  was  a  dainty  flush  on  the  delicate 
cheeks,  the  sensitive  lips  were  parted  with  a  bright,  happy 
smile.  She  had  forgotten  poor  child,  and  she  was  so  unutter- 
ably happy  in  her  forgetfulness  ;  there  was  such  content- 
ment in  his  love,  the  warm  clasp  of  his  strong  hand  was 
full  of  safety  and  protection,  that  great,  noble  heart  of  his 
was  a  haven  of  sure  rest.  She  was  unutterably  happy  ; 
and  he,  looking  at  her,  had  no  fear. 


238  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

11  I  could  not  stay  away  any  longer,  Ethel,"  he  said. 
"  I  was  afraid  to  risk  all,  lest  I  should  lose  all ;  but  you 
will  not  be  cruel  to  me — you  will  not  send  me  from  you  ? 
You  love  me — you  will  love  me,  Ethel  ?  " 

She  said  something — a  few  gentle  words  that  were 
full  of  music.  He  could  not  hear  then,  but  he  was  con- 
tent. 

"  And  I,"  he  said,  "  I  will  love  you  for  ever,  my  beau- 
tiful queen  !  " 

•  How  cruel  it  was  !  How  the  words  stabbed  her  with 
sharpest  pain  !  So  hard,  so  bitter  was  the  pain  that  a  cry 
he  never  forgot  came  from  her  lips. 

"  My  beautiful  queen  !  "  Who  had  said  those  words 
to  her  before  ;  The  lake,  the  cedar,  the  noble  face  of  her 
lover  disappeared.  She  was  standing  in  the  dewy  fresh- 
ness of  a  summer  morning  by  a  gate  that  led  to  a  stretch 
of  wood,  and  her  young,  newly-made  husband  was  by  her 
side.  He  was  covering  her  hands  with  kisses  and  tears. 
She  saw  the  handsome  face — she  heard  the  long-silent 
voice  saying  ;  "  For  I  love  you  so  dearly,  my  beautiful 
queen  ! "  Ah  !  dear  Heaven  !  that  even  for  one  happy 
moment  she  could  forget  !  She  stood  up  with  a  despair- 
ing cry — her  beautiful  young  face  grew  ghastly  in  her  pal- 
lor. 

"  I  had  forgotten  !  "  she  moaned.  "  Ah  !  Heaven 
pardon  me — I  had  forgotten  !  " 

Then  the  anguish  of  her  pain  became  too  strong  for 
her,  and,  turning  from  him,  with  a  cry  she  fell  on  her  face 
on  the  long,  cool  grass. 

He  was  frightened  for  her — not  for  himself.  He  felt 
sure  that  she  loved  him — that  he  should  win  her — that  she 
would  be  his  wife  ;  but  he  fancied  that  he  had  startled  her 
— that  he  had  been  too  abrupt.  Yet  why  should  she  look 
so  despairing  ?  What  had  she  forgotten  ? 

He  went  to  her,  and  raised  her.      As  he   turned  her 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  2^ 

face  to  the  sunlight,  he  was  startled  by  its  look  of  pale, 
settled  despair,  He  held  her  in  his  arms,  he  kissed  her 
white  lips. 

"  My  darling,"  he  said,  "  forgive  me.  I  have  startled 
you,  Ethel.  I  shall  never  pardon  myself,  if  I  have  frigh- 
tened you." 

His  voice  seemed  to  recall  her  to  herself — a  deadly 
shudder  passed  over  her  frame.  Sir  Oscar  grew  alarmed. 

"  Ethel,  my  darling,  what  is  the  matter  ?  I  did  not 
think  I  should  startle  you  so  greatly." 

"  It  is  not  that,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice — "  I  had  for- 
gotten." 

How  was  she  to  tell  him  ?  She  grew  faint  and  sick 
with  despair.  How  was  she  to  tell  him  that  she,  so  young, 
was  married  already,  and  that  the  husband  she  had  wedded 
in  such  secrecy  and  haste  was  a  common  felon  ?  Twice 
her  white  lips  opened,  but  all  sound  died  upon  them. 

"  I  am  a  rough  soldier,"  said  Sir  Oscar,  "  and  I  have 
frightened  you.  I  am  too  brusque,  too  abrupt.  Ethel, 
forgive  me  ;  tell  me  you  are  not  angry — tell  me  that  you 
will  be  my  wife." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face,  and  their  sorrow 
touched  him.  He  was  about  to  plead  more  earnestly,  more 
passionately,  when  the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps 
arrested  the  words  on  his  lips. 

Squire  Raymond  and  Miss  Seagrave  were  coming  to- 
ward them. 

"Ethel,"  he  said,  hurriedly,  "you  must  give  me  an 
answer.  I  shall  leave  my  heart,  my  hope,  my  life,  my  love 
in  your  sweet  hands ;  think  of  what  I  have  said,  and  to- 
morrow I  will  come  to  you  to  know  my  fate." 

She  turned  away  from  him  ;  not  to  save  her  life  could 
she  have  uttered  one  word.  He  was  perplexed  and  bewild- 
ered, unable  to  think  what  had  so  suddenly  overcome  her. 


24o  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  You  will  not  care  to  meet  these  people,"  he  said — "  I 
will  go  to  them." 

Sir  Oscar  joined  the  newcomers,  and  Ethel  returned  to 
the  house. 

"  Is  Miss  St.  Norman  going  in  ?  "  asked  the  squire,  in 
a  tone  of  great  disappointment.  "  I  thought  we  were  go- 
ing round  the  grounds." 

"  Miss  St.  Norman  is  tired,"  explained  Sir  Oscar ;  and 
that  excuse  served  as  a  pretext  for  her  absence  during  the 
evening. 

Sir  Oscar,  although  distressed  and  anxious,  tried  to 
make  the  best  of  matters,  and  returned  to  the  drawing- 
room.  Lord  St.  Norman  saw  the  anxious  expression  of 
his  face,  but  was  too  well  bred  to  ask  any  questions.  So 
the  evening  passed  slowly.  Ethel  excused  herself  from 
appearing  by  sending  a  message  to  Lady  St.  Norman. 

She  could  not  have  met  strangers  on  that  evening; 
she  could  keep  up  appearances  no  longer ;  she  must  be 
alone  in  her  sorrow,  as  she  had  been  in  her  joy.  She  could 
not  have  looked  upon  her  father's  face,  nor  endured  the 
sound  of  her  lover's  voice — she  must  bear  the  smart  of  her 
pain  alone.  She  locked  her  door,  saying  to  herself  that 
she  could  not  permit  any  one  to  see  her  in  this,  the  su- 
preme hour  of  her  desolation.  She  took  off  the  pretty  dress 
that  had  been  so  great  a  source  of  pleasure  to  her,  she  took 
off  the  pearls  that  had  added  to  her  beauty,  all  in  a  dumb, 
mechanical  way  that  was  pitiful  to  see.  Then  she  stood 
like  one  who,  by  some  keen  and  terrible  blow,  had  been 
rendered  powerless.  Her  brain  whirled,  her  thoughts 
were  all  chaos ;  she  could  not  collect  them.  She  stood 
firm,  while  the  first  shock  of  grief  passed  over  her,  as  a 
rock  stands  firm  beneath  the  shock  of  angry  waves. 

How  blind  she  had  been — how  foolish  not  to  see  that 
the  very  danger  she  had  steeled  herself  against  was  so  near 
her !  How  blind  and  foolish  she  was  to  mistake  love  for 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  241 

friendship  !  And  she  did  love  him,  with  the  love  that  was 
her  doom.  All  through  the  long  months  that  love  had 
grown  upon  her,  unconsciously  to  herself ;  it  had  taken 
such  complete  possession  of  her  heart,  soul,  and  mind,  that 
she  had  forgotten  everything  else,  and  had  been  blind  to 
all  danger. 

It  was  so  cruel,  so  hard.  No  wonder  she  clasped  her 
hands,  and  fell  on  her  knees  with  a  great,  voiceless  sob, 
trying  to  pray,  yet  finding  no  words  in  which  to  express 
herself — trying  to  ask  mercy  from  Heaven,  yet  not  able 
to  remember  words  in  which  to  ask  it. 

It  was  so  terribly  hard,  so  bitterly  cruel.  She  had  not 
thought  to  do  much  harm.  She  loved  her  father,  and  had 
loathed  the  idea  of  a  second  marriage  for  him.  To  pre- 
vent that  marriage  she  had  resolved  to  lessen  his  esteem 
for  Helen  Digby.  The  tempter  had  found  her  out,  and  had 
preyed  upon  her  weakness.  She  had  been  persuaded,  flat- 
tered into  this  fatal  marriage  ;  she  had  been  more  reckless 
than  a  careless  child,  and  the  punishment  of  her  sin  was 
great  and  terrible  to  bear.  Young,  beautiful,  and  beloved^ 
she  was  bound  in  chains  that  must  hamper  her  while  life 
lasted.  She  had  weakly  yielded  to  persuasion  and  flattery  ; 
the  result  was  that  her  whole  life  had  been  marred  and 
blighted. 

She  loved  Sir  Oscar.  She  saw  and  understood  it  all 
•now  that  it  was  too  late — all  her  recent  peace  and  happi- 
ness had  arisen  from  the  sweet,  unconscious  dawn  of  love. 
He  had  asked  her  to  be  his  wife  ;  and  she  might  have  been 
so  happy  with  him — she  could  imagine  no  lot  in  life  hap- 
pier. Earth  would  have  been  like  Paradise  could  she 
have  lived  by  his  side.  Before  her  stretched  out  the  long 
years  that  might  have  been  gladdened  by  his  love,  wherein 
she  might  have  been  his  happy,  honored,  beloved  wife. 
She  might  have  borne  his  name,  have  stood  side  by  side 
with  him  in  all  the  struggles  of  the  world  ;  she  might  have 


242  REPENTED  AT  LEISURE 

died  holding  his  hands,  comforted  by  his  love  and  tender- 
ness. All  the  joy,  the  brightness,  the  happiness,  the  love 
that  might  have  been  hers,  passed  in  review  before  her. 

"  My  love,  my  love,"  she  moaned ;  "  I  could  have  been 
so  happy  with  you  ! J) 

If  she  could  but  go  to  him  on  the  morrow  and  say  :  "  I 
love  you,  Oscar — I  will  be  your  wife  1 "  how  he  would  clasp 
her  in  his  arms  and  cover  her  face  with  kisses — how  his 
great  heart  would  throb  with  happiness  I 

Before  her  again  stretched  out  the  long  years  in  which 
though  she  loved  him,  she  must  see  him  no  more — the 
long  years  during  which  she  must  live  her  solitary,  deso- 
late, lonely  life,  unrelieved  by  the  love  of  husband  or  child 
— the  years  that  must  bring  her  at  last  to  a  solitary  death. 
She  clinched  her  hands,  and  bit  her  lips  to  keep  herself 
from  cursing  the  man  who  had  brought  such  ruin  and  des- 
olation on  her  young  life. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  243 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

ETHEL  was  standing  at  her  window  when  the  great 
hall  clock  sounded  twelve.  She  was  unable  to  sleep, 
unable  to  rest.  The  room,  large  and  sumptuous  as  it 
was,  seemed  too  small  for  her  to  breathe  in.  She  had 
opened  the  window  and  stood  looking  out  on  the  sweet, 
calm,  dewy  night. 

It  was  all  so  calm  and  fair,  contrasting  with  the  hot, 
passionate  bitterness  of  her  tortured  heart.  The  moon 
was  shining  on  the  trees,  throwing  quaint,  graceful  shadows 
on  the  grass  ;  the  flowers,  even  in  sleep,  gave  her  their 
sweetest  odors  ;  the  birds  were  all  at  rest. 

"  Heaven  meant  the  world  to  be  happy,"  she  said  to 
herself,  "  or  it  would  not  be  so  fair.  I  am  young,"  she 
moaned,  "  and  I  have  but  one  life  to  live — how  shall  I  bear 
that  to  be  ruined  and  blighted  ?  " 

As  she  stood  there,  the  night  wind  sighing  around  her 
and  making  wild  music  in  the  trees,  there  came  to  her  a 
subtle,  terrible  temptation — one  that  shook  her,  that  be- 
wildered her, — a  temptation  so  gracefully  disguised  that  it 
seemed  almost  like  the  prompting  of  a  good  thought. 

Why  should  she  be  always  miserable  ?  Why  should 
she  make  Sir  Oscar  wretched?  Surely  that  miserable 
marriage  could  never  be  binding.  Laurie  Carrington  had 
duped  and  deceived  her ;  he  had  tempted  her  by  the  most 
cruel  arts ;  he  had  played  upon  her  weakness ;  he  had 
tricked  her  ;  he  had  married  her  under  a  false  name  ;  he 
had  left  her  on  her  wedding-day,  and  she  had  never  seen 
him  or  heard  of  him  since.  Surely  the  ti3  could  not  be  bind- 
ing— she  could  not  be,  in  very  truth,  the  wife  of  the  crimi- 
nal who  had  lured  her  to  her  ruin.  But,  supposing  she  was 


244  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

— to  take  the  worst  view  possible — his  wife  before  Heaven 
— in  all  probability,  the  secret  of  that  terrible  marriage 
would  never  be  known.  He  might  die  abroad.  A  hun- 
dred things  might  happen  to  him.  It  was  not  probable 
that  he  would  ever  claim  her.  He  would  not  dare  to  do  so  ; 
even  if  he  were  so  disposed  he  could  not  find  her.  Should 
he  hear  of  Lady  Charlcote,  he  would  never  imagine  her 
to  be  his  lost  wife.  Why  not  be  happy  herself,  and  make 
Sir  Oscar  happy  too  ?  Who  would  ever  know  ?  What 
possible  harm  could  it  do  ?  She  had  suffered  enough  for 
that  sin  and  folly  of  her  youth — she  did  not  wish  to  suffer 
any  more.  Surely  now  she  might  consider  herself  free. 
Other  people  had  sinned  far  more,  yet  in  the  end  had  been 
happy — why  should  not  she  ? 

She  would.  She  did  not  see  the  necessity  of  waiting 
any  longer  in  this  dreary  uncertainty.  She  would  take 
her  fate  into  her  own  hands.  She  would  bury  her  secret, 
and  marry  Sir  Oscar. 

So  she  decided ;  and  a  curious  kind  of  relief  came  to 
her.  She  could  tell  him  in  the  morning  something  that 
would  account  for  her  agitation.  She  would  bury  this 
hateful  secret,  and  marry  him,  and  then  she  would  be 
happy.  If  there  were  any  danger  in  England,  she  felt 
quite  sure  that  she  could  persuade  Sir  Oscar  to  lire  abroad. 
Her  secret  would  never  be  known — why  blight  the  remain- 
der of  her  life  ?  She  would  make  her  father  happy  ;  Helen 
\vould  be  pleased ;  and  Sir  Oscar — a  great  rush  of  warm 
happiness  filled  her  heart  as  she  thought  of  him  and  what 
he  would  say. 

So  she  decided — the  sweet,  subtle  temptation  mastered 
her  for  the  time. 

"  It  cannot  be  very  wrong,"  she  repeated  to  herself, 
piteously.  "  I  have  suffered  enough." 

She  stood  watching  the  glimmer  of  the  stars,  thinking 
of  a  hundred  things — how  she  would  see*  Sir  Oscar  on  the 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  245 

morrow — how  her  father  would  kiss  and  bless  her — of  the 
pomp  of  the  wedding  and  the  happiness  of  being  Sir  Os- 
car's wife  ;  and  as  she  mused  the  glimmer  of  the  stars  car- 
ried her  mind  to  the  fair,  pure  world  above  them.  If  she 
did  this  deed,  would  there  ever  be  any  place  for  her  there  ? 
Could  she  go  to  that  bright,  pure  land  where  angels  re- 
joice ?  She  knew  in  the  depth  of  her  heart  that  all  the  ar- 
guments she  had  used  to  herself  were  so  many  flimsy  soph- 
istries; that,  though  he  had  been  brought  to  justice,  she 
was  the  lawful  wife  of  the  man  she  had  married  secretly, 
and  that,  being  his  lawful  wife,  no  earthly  power  could  free 
her  from  him  ;  she  knew  that,  disguise  it  as  she  might,  if 
she  did  this  deed  it  would  be  a  deadly  sin. 

"  He  is  worthy  of  a  better  fate,"  she  sighed,  "  than  to 
be  deceived  as  I  should  deceive  him  if  I  married  him  now. 
No,  it  must  not  be." 

The  temptation  was  strong,  subtle  and  sweet,  but  she 
must  trample  it  under  her  feet  as  would  to  Heaven  she 
had  done  that  temptation  of  revenge  years  ago. 

"Gordon  abides  by  what  Gordon  has  done."  She  had 
sinned,  she  must  suffer.  She  would  not  increase  her  sin  ; 
she  bowed  her  head  and  prayed  Heaven  to  pardon  her  be- 
cause for  a  few  moments  she  had  yielded  to  such  a  thought. 
There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  endure  to  the  end — to  die 
hard,  but  in  dying  to  make  no  sign.  A  hero  loved  her, 
she  must  make  herself  worthy  of  a  hero's  love — that  would 
be  by  brave  endurance,  not  by  weakly  yielding  to  a  strong 
temptation. 

It  was  past  now.  She  had  trampled  it  under  foot,  and 
there  was  an  end  of  it.  "  I  thank  Heaven,"  said  Ethel, 
reverently,  "  that  I  did  not  yield." 

She  must  see  Sir  Oscar  on  the  morrow,  and  must  tell 
him  that  there  was  no  hope.  She  had  imagined  at  first 
that  she  must  tell  him  her  secret,  but  she  had  altered  hei 
mind.  She  could  not  do  so.  He  would  think  her  capii 


246  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

cious,  changeable,  vain,  fitful,  weak — better  that,  better  any 
thing,  than  that  he  should  know  her  to  be  the  wife  of  a 
common  forger — than  that  he  should  know  this  story  of  how 
she  had  married  in  secret  and  in  haste.  She  must  tell  him 
that  she  declined  his  offer,  he  was  so  generous,  so  kind,  so 
noble,  he  would  never  ask  her  why.  She  must  send  him 
away — and  with  him  would  go  the  last  faint  gleam  of  hap- 
piness that  she  would  ever  know. 

She  raised  her  face  to  the  skies,  repeating  the  words, 
"  I  must  send  him  away  ;  "  and  then  there  came  to  her  a 
picture  of  the  years  as  they  would  be  when  he  was  gone — 
cold,  dreary,  desolate,  unrelieved  by  the  sight  of  his  face 
or  the  sound  of  his  voice — loveless,  joyless  years,  and  then 
death — death,  without  his  hands  to  clasp  hers,  without 
his  love  to  comfort  her — death,  however,  with  the  knowl- 
edge that  she  had  borne  bravely  the  punishment  of  her  sin, 
and  had  not  been  guilty  of  criminal  weakness.  She  bowed 
her  beautiful  head  in  the  starlight,  hiding  her  fair,  colorless 
face  in  her  hands. 

"  With  Heaven's  help,"  she  said,  "  I  will  bear  my  punish- 
ment bravely,  patiently,  and  give  up,  renounce  forever,  my 
love  ;  "  and  she  adhered  to  her  determination  unbrokenly. 

The  light  of  the  stars  was  fading  then,  and  faint  pearly 
tints,  as  of  the  early  dawn,  came  into  the  sky.  She  never 
thought  of  rest ;  she  had  a  task  before  her — to  say  farewell 
to  this  man  whom  so  unconsciously  she  had  grown  to  love 
with  all  her  heart.  She  would  have  all  the  remainder  of 
her  life  to  rest ;  now  she  must  think  of  him,  and  how  to 
spare  him  pain.  The  pearly  tints  became  rose-colored,  the 
glorious  sun  rose  in  the  east,  the  heavens  were  a  sheet  of 
flame,  the  dew  shone  on  the  flowers,  and  in  the  long,  thick 
grass,  the  birds  began  to  sing,  but  still  she  sat,  her  fair  face 
buried  in  her  hands,  thinking  of  how  best  to  spare  Sir  Oscar 
pain. 

As  to  herself,  she  would  try  to  be  brave,  to  endure,  to 


REPENTED  AT  LEISURE. 


247 


be  patient  and  strong,  to  bear  the  burden  of  the  joyless 
years  until  they  ended  in  death ;  with  him  whom  she  loved 
so  tenderly  it  would  be  otherwise.  Her  heart  ached  with 
womanly  pity  for  him. 

The  full  morning  came  at  last ;  she  heard  the  stir  of  the 
busy  household,  and  she  knew  that  her  long  night-watch 
was  over.  In  after  years  she  often  thought  that  she  had 
said  adieu  to  her  youth  and  all  its  brightness  during  that 
sad  terrible  night. 

The  fair,  colorless  face  bore  traces  of  her  watch — the 
dainty,  exquisite  bloom  had  left  it,  the  light  that  only  yes- 
terday had  made  her  so  fair  was  all  gone.  A  bright,  hope- 
ful girl  had  looked  in  that  mirror  yesterday — now  it  re- 
flected the  sad,  weary  face  of  a  sorrowful  woman. 

She  had  to  say  "  good-by  "  to  him  within  twelve  hours. 
She  knew  that  she  must  not  see  him  again ;  it  would  be 
neither  prudent  nor  wise.  She  could  not  hope  in  after 
years  to  renew  her  friendship  with  him.  That  friendship 
had  been  a  delusion ;  there  must  be  no  more  of  it.  The 
"  good-by  "  must  be  final.  "  And  when  I  have  said  it," 
she  thought  to  herself,  "  I  shall  have  said  good-by  to  life. 
There  will  remain  for  me  nothing  save  through  the  long 
years  to  endure  a  living  death/* 

So  dawned  the  day  for  which  Sir  Oscar  Charlcote  had 
waited  so  long  and  had  wished  so  ardently.  He  hailed  it 
as  the  day  that  would  give  him  his  heart's  desire.  What 
the  close  of  it  was  to  him,  the  sorrow  of  long  years  told. 


2  48  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

ETHEL  was  undecided  as  to  how  to  meet  Sir  Oscar.  It 
was  useless  to  send  excuses  or  make  delays — the  task  must 
be  accomplished.  She  thought  of  going  down  to  breakfast, 
and  then  walking  out  with  him ;  but,  when  she  rose  from 
her  seat  to  make  the  necessary  change  in  her  dress,  her 
limbs  trembled  so  that  she  could  not  stand.  She  could  not 
go  down  to  breakfast  and  talk  and  laugh  with  those  around 
her — she,  with  her  strength  all  gone.  She  decided  at  last 
to  write  a  note  to  him.  It  said  simply, — 

"  DEAR  SIR  OSCAR  :  I  do  not  feel  well  enough  to  go 
down  to  breakfast  to-day.  Will  you  meet  me  in  an  hour's 
time  by  the  lakeside  ?  I  have  something  very  important 
to  say  to  you." 

The  maid  to  whom  she  intrusted  the  note  smiled  with 
delight.  She  little  guessed  the  depth  of  despair  in  the 
heart  of  the  hapless  girl  who  had  written  it.  Sir  Oscar  did 
not  smile  as  he  read.  He  knew  Ethel  so  well — he  under- 
stood her  pride,  her  delicate  reserve,  her  modesty,  her 
graceful  reticence  so  well — that  to  him  this  little  note 
augured  ill.  The  "  something  "  she  had  to  say  puzzled 
him — he  would  not  even  think  that  she  was  about  to  reject 
him.  • 

"  I  am  sure  she  likes  me,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  She 
is  so  proud  that,  if  she  did  not  love  me,  she  would  never 
have  allowed  me  to  kiss  her  hand — she  would  have  dis- 
missed me  with  a  word.  It  must  be  some  shy,  girlish 
idea." 

Lady  St.  Norman  did  not  feel  in  the  least  degree  an* 
xious  about  Ethel's  absence  from  the  breakfast  table. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  249 

"  She  likes  to  keep  her  lover  in  suspense/*  Lady  St. 
Norman  told  her  husband  ;  and  he  laughed  at  the  idea. 

"  When  a  proud  girl  like  Ethel  does  give  up  her  lib- 
erty/' he  said,  "  I  suppose  the  happy  lover  pays  dearly  for 
it." 

He  never  dreamed  that  the  shadow  which  had  so  long 
darkened  his  daughter's  life  was  to  become  perpetual 
gloom.  Sir  Oscar  went  to  his  appointment ;  he  was  im- 
patient to  know  what  Ethel  had  to  say  to  him.  He  saw 
her  in  the  distance,  sitting  under  the  shade  of  the  large 
cedar-tree,  and  his  heart  beat  as  he  drew  near  her.  His 
hope  failed  when  she  raised  her  colorless  face  to  his. 

"  My  dearest  Ethel,"  he  said,  "  I  have  hastened  to  obey 
your  wish,  I  hope  you  have  good  news  for  me — you  have 
been  thinking  of  what  I  have  said,  and  you  will  promise  to 
be  my  wife  ?  " 

He  sat  down  by  her  side  ;  he  saw  on  her  fair  face  the 
traces  of  her  long  night-watch,  and  he  wondered  silently 
what  she  was  about  to  say. 

"  If  there  was  any  prayer  I  could  urge  that  I  have  not 
urged  already,"  he  said,  "  I  would  use  it,  Ethel.  I  left  my 
life  and  my  love  in  your  hands  ;  you  will  give  me  something 
in  return  for  them  ?" 

"  I  sent  for  you,  Sir  Oscar,"  returned  Ethel,  "  to  tell 
you  that  I  am  grateful  for  your  love — for  your  kindness — 
but  that  I  can  never  be  your  wife." 

Her  voice  was  so  altered  that  he  hardly  recognized  it ; 
and  the  music  seemed  to  have  died  out  of  it. 

"  My  dearest  Ethel,  that  is  a  neat  little  speech — one 
that  you  have  evidently  learned  by  heart ;  but  I  refuse  for 
one  moment  to  believe  that  you  mean  it  or  that  you  intend 
to  be  so  cruel  to  me ;  you  could  not." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  faltered,  "  but  indeed  it  is  true,  I 
cannot  marry  you  Sir  Oscar." 

Still  he  did  not  believe  ;  it  was  shyness,  it  was  coyness, 


250  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

it  was  a  desire  to  tease  him — it  could  not  be  true.  He 
knelt  before  her  as  one  who  sued  humbly  for  the  favor  of 
a  queen  ;  he  took  the  white  cold  hands  in  his,  and  looked 
up  into  the  exquisite  face. 

"  You  cannot  mean  it,  Ethel.  See,  dearest,  I  kneel  to 
you.  Pray  do  not  send  me  away  from  you.  You  do  not 
know  how  dearly  I  love  you.  If  you  were  to  tell  me  to 
die  for  you,  I  would  do  so  with  a  smile  on  my  lips  ;  but  I 
cannot  leave  you  Ethel.  There  are  some  things  beyond  a 
man's  strength ;  that  is  beyond  mine.  Let  death  come  if 
needs  must,  but  not  life  without  you !  " 

"  I  cannot  marry  you,  Sir  Oscar,"  she  repeated — and 
something  in  the  wistful  anguish  of  her  face  told  him  the 
words  were  true. 

"  Ethel,"  he  asked,  "  do  you  love  me  ? " 

She  raised  her  beautiful  eyes  slowly  to  his,  and  in  their 
shadowed  depths  he  read  nothing  but  despair. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  I  love  you.  I  might  say  *  No/  I 
might  speak  falsely,  I  might  make  some  evasive  answer, 
but  it  would  be  useless,  quite  useless.  I  love  you,  Sir 
Oscar,  but  I  can  never  be  your  wife." 

His  face  flushed  as  he  listened  to  her  ;  the  hapless  ex- 
pression of  her  face,  the  dreary  sound  of  her  voice  filled 
him  with  dismay. 

"  Ethel,"  he  said,  gently,  "  will  you  answer  me  one  ques- 
tion ?  When  a  man  has  to  die,  he  may  ask  for  a  reason, 
Tell  me — do  you  love  any  one  else  ? " 

"  No,"  she  replied,  sadly  "  I  do  not." 

"  Have  you  ever  loved  any  one  else  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered,  earnestly — "  never  in  all  my  life." 

"  Yet  you  cannot  marry  me  !  Oh,  Ethel,  you  are  say- 
ing it  to  try  me  !  You  cannot  be  in  earnest,  my  beautiful 
love  !  " 

"  It  is   true,    Sir  Oscar,"  said  the  girl.     "  I  love   you 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  2  5 1 

alone  of  all  the  world.  I  shall  never  love  any  one  else, 
let  me  live  as  long  as  I  may." 

He  looked  thoughtfully  at  her. 

"  Ethel,  you  know  that  Lord  St.  Norman  is  not  only 
favorable  to  our  marriage,  but  he  is  desirous  of  \t." 

"  I  know  that,"  she  said. 

"  There  can  be  no  objection  on  that  score.  If  your  father 
were  unwilling,  however  dearly  I  might  love  you,  I  would 
not  urge  my  suit — honor  would  forbid  it ;  but  he  is  anxious 
for  our  marriage,  Ethel.  I  am  rich  enough  to  be  able  to 
give  you  all  the  splendor  and  luxury  your  heart  can  desire. 
I  cannot,  look  which  way  I  will,  find  any  grounds  for  your 
refusal  to  marry  me." 

"  It  is  not  that  I  will  not,"  she  said,  sadly.  "  You 
do  not  understand,  Sir  Oscar — I  cannot.  It  is  hard  for  me 
for  I  love  you." 

"  Then,  darling,  be  my  wife  ;  after  all  it  can  be  but  a 
fancied  scruple — nothing  more." 

The  saddest  smile  that  ever  came  over  woman's  lips 
crossed  hers. 

"  I  would  to  Heaven  it  were  fancy — it  is  a  terrible 
reality.  Sir  Oscar  I  love  you,  but  I  can  never  be  your 
wife  because  I  have  a  secret  in  my  life." 

"  A  secret,  Ethel  !  "  he  repeated.  He  looked  at  the 
pale,  beautiful  face,  with  its  sad,  sweet  lips  and  tender 
eyes.  "  I  should  not  care,  my  darling,  if  you  had  five 
hundred  !  Oh,  Ethel,  trust  me  ;  you  are  young  and  inex- 
perienced, and  what  you  deem  of  moment  may  be  nothing 
after  all.  I  am  quite  sure  of  one  thing — there  can  be 
nothing  in  your  beautiful,  pure  young  life  to  unfit  you  to 
be  my  wife." 

"  Thank  you  for  your  generous  trust  in  me,"  she  re- 
sponded ;  "  but  my  secret  will  prevent  my  marrying  you." 

"  Will  you  trust  me   with  it  ?  "  he  asked,  anxiously. 


2j 2  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  Not  that  I  would  know  it  from  idle  curiosity,  but  that  1 
might  help  you,  Ethel." 

"  You  cannot  help  me.  I  must  bear  my  sorrow  alone 
until  I  die.  I  cling  to  your  esteem.  I  cannot  tell  you  my 
secret.  Be  generous,  and  do  not  ask  me  to  do  so." 

"  I  would  stake  my  existence  on  your  goodness,  Ethel. 
If  you  yourself  told  me,  I  v^ould  not  believe  that  you  had 
done  wrong.  I  would  never  believe  but  that  you  are  the 
purest  and  best,  even  as  you  are  the  most  beautiful  of  wo- 
men." 

"  That  depends  on  what  you  call  wrong.  I  cannot  tell 
you  what  I  did.  I  will  not  tell  you  my  secret.  I  did  not 
do  wrong  willingly.  I  was  young,  foolish,  blind."  Her 
voice  died  away,  and  a  deep,  bitter  sob  came  from  her 
lips. 

"  Ethel,  my  darling,  if  you  would  but  trust  me  !  "  he 
cried. 

"  I  do  trust  you,  but  I  cannot  tell  you  my  secret.  I 
can  never  be  your  wife,  Sir  Oscar.  The  gulf  between  us 
is  one  that  nothing  can  bridge  over.  It  is  deeper  and 
darker  than  death." 

"Then,  Ethel,"  he  demanded,  in  a  voice  full  of  an- 
guish, "  do  you  mean  that  I,  with  my  heart  and  soul  full 
of  love  for  you — with  my  whole  life  depending  on  you — do 
you  mean  that  I  am  to  go  away  from  you,  and  never  see 
you  again  ?  " 

The  passion  in  his  voice  startled  her.  She  laid  her 
white  hand  on  his. 

"  I  mean  it,  dear,"  she  said,  gently  ;  "  it  must  be  so 
— it  cannot  be  helped." 

"  Not  even  if  it  breaks  my  heart,  Ethel  ? " 

"  Not  if  it  breaks  your  heart,  and  mine,"  she  answered  ; 
"  we  must  part,  and  it  will  be  unwise  for  us  ever  to  meet 
again." 

He  buried  his  face  in  the  soft  silken  folds  of  her  dress, 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  353 

and  a  silence  that  wa?  full  of  pain  fell  over  them.  When 
he  raised  his  face  again  it  was  colorless  as  her  own,  with 
great  lines  of  pain  round  the  firm  lips. 

"  How  cruel  women  are  !  "  he  cried.  "  The  fairest 
among  them  are  more  cruel  than  the  boy  who  cages  a  bird 
and  then  tortures  it  to  death.  Ethel,  you  knew  that  I  loved 
you,  and  you  took  my  heart  in  your  hands  only  to  break  it. 
Oh,  cruel — cruel  and  cold  !  " 

"  Nay,  Oscar,"  she  interrupted.  "  I  stand  on  the 
threshold  of  a  parting  that  will  be  to  both  of  us  more 
bitter  than  death  ;  believe  me,  on  my  word,  I  did  not 
think  of  love.  I  did  not  know  you  loved  me,  I  did  not 
know  that  I  loved  you  ;  I  thought  that  we  were  only  dear, 
true  friends.  I  never  meant  to  love  any  one — the  knowl- 
edge came  on  me  as  a  shock  or  a  terrible  surprise  ;  but  it 
came  too  late.  You  believe  me,  Oscar,  do  you  not  ? " 

"  My  poor  child,  my  poor  Ethel,  forgive  me  if  I  seemed 
to  upbraid  you.  Darling,  I  would  rather  love  you,  and 
love  you  in  vain,  than  win  the  greatest  affection  from  any 
one  else.  But,  Ethel,  this  secret  of  yours — does  Lord  St. 
Norman  know  it  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him,  her  sweet  face  white  with  terror. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  quickly  ;  "  and  you  must  not  lead 
him  to  suppose  that  there  is  one,  Oscar.  He  will  think 
I  am  proud  and  cold  of  heart  ;  he  must  think  so — better 
anything  than  that  he  should  suspect  the  truth." 

"  I  wish  you  would  trust  me,"  he  said.  "  This  is  not 
the  age  of  mystery  or  romance ;  what  secret  can  a  fair 
young  life  like  yours  hold,  Ethel,  which  should  prevent 
your  being  happy  ?  " 

She,  listening  to  him,  buried  he*  face  in  her  hands, 
weeping  loudly,  and  crying  that  it  was  all  her  fault — all 
her  fault — and  that  she  was  most  bitterly  punished  for  her 
sin. 

Ethel  was  the  first  to  recover  herself.     Sir  Oscar  was 


254  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

like  one  stunned  by  a  sudden  blow.  Ethel's  words  were 
so  unexpected  that  for  a  time  they  had  unmanned  him. 
She  laid  her  hands  on  his,  and  looked  at  him. 

"  Heaven  knows  ;  "  she  said,  "  that  I  would  have  borne 
anything  rather  than  have  inflicted  this  pain  upon  you.     1 
did  not  mean  it.     Will  you  forgive  me  ?     The  only  pleas-  k 
ant  memory  I  can  carry  with  me  through  life  is   that  you 
have  forgiven  me  ! " 

"  I  have  nothing  to  forgive,"  he  returned,  gently.  "  I 
have  told  you,  Ethel  that  I  would  rather  be  unhappy  with 
your  love  than  happy  with  the  truest  affection  of  another. 
You  will  send  me  from  you,  then,  Ethel  ? " 

"  I  must,  there  is  no  alternative.  I  send  you  from  me 
in  time,  that  I  may  meet  you  in  eternity.  I  might  have 
deceived  you,  and  done  wrong  ;  but  then  there  would  have 
been  no  heaven  for  me.  I  shall  bear  the  pain  of  my  life 
as  bravely  as  I  can." 

"You  are  so  good,  Ethel,"  he  moaned.  "lam  sure 
you  have  done  no  wrong."  And  then  he  looked  at  her 
white  face.  "  What  am  I  to  do,  Ethel  ?  How  am  I  to 
bear  my  life  ?  " 

She  thought  of  his  own  words  in  India,  and  longed  to 
repeat  them. 

"  I  must  bear  it,  too,"  he  continued  ;  "  but  it  is  the 
heaviest  sorrow  that  man  ever  had  to  bear.  Ethel,  do  you 
mean  that  I  am  to  go  back  to  Lord  St.  Norman,  tell  him 
that  I  have  failed,  and  then  go  away  without  the  least 
gleam  of  hope  ?  Do  you  mean  that  ? " 

"  There  is  no  hope,"  she  replied ;  "  and  I  shall  be 
grateful  to  you  if  you  will  tell  my  father.  He  will  be  angry 
and  disappointed,  but  it  cannot  be  helped." 

"  I  will  do  that,  or  anything  else  for  you.  And  this  is 
the  last  time,  Ethel,  that  I  am  to  look  into  your  beautiful 
face  and  hold  your  hand  in  mine — the  last  time  I  am  to 
whisper  words  to  you  ?  " 


REPENTED  AT  LEISURE. 


255 


"  Yes,  it  is  the  last  time,"  she  answered. 

"  Ethel,"  he  said,  suddenly  ;  "  make  me  one  promise- 
that  if  ever  you  want  help  you  will  send  forme.  I  will  not 
ask  again  what  your  secret  is — if  you  could  you  would  tell 
me.  But,  if  ever  there  conies  a  time  when  I  can  help  you 
— when  a  strong  right  arm,  an  earnest  will,  a  devoted  heart 
may  be  of  service  to  you — will  you  send  for  me  ?  " 

"  I  will,"  she  said, 

"  Another  request,  my  darling — if  I  lie  dying  and  send 
for  you,  will  you  come  to  bid  me  farewell  ?  " 

"  Without  fail,"  she  promised. 

"May  I  write  to  you,  Ethel,"  he  asked — "not  often, 
but  sometimes — so  that  I  may  hear  from  yourself  that  you 
are  living  and  well  ? " 

"  It  will  be  better  not.  Try  to  forget  me,  dear — try 
even,  if  you  can,  to  find  some  one  else  more  worthy  of  your 
great  and  generous  love  ;  try  to  forget  me,  for  I  can  never 
be  your  wife,  and  we  two  must  henceforth  be  as  strangers.'' 

As  she  said  the  words  he  saw  her  face  grow  paler,  and 
he  knew  that  her  strength  was  fast  failing  her.  The  great- 
est kindness  that  he  could  do  for  her  would  be  to  shorten 
this  terrible  parting  and  to  leave  her.  The  same  idea 
seemed  to  strike  Ethel.  She  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"  Oscar,"  she  said,  gently,  "  say  good-by  to  me  here 
and  now." 

He  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  and  she  did  not  shrink 
from  him — it  was  the  last  caress,  sad  and  solemn  as 
though  she  lay  on  her  deathbed  and  he  had  come  to  say 
farewell. 

"  Good-by,  my  love — my  wife  that  should  have  been ; 
my  dear  and  only  love,  good-by." 

He  kissed  the  white  lips,  not  once  but  a  hundred  times 
Strong  man  as  he  was,  tears  fell  from  his  eyes. 

"  Ethel,  say  one  kind  word  to  me,  that  I  may  take  it  with 
me  through  the  long  years  to  comfort  me." 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

She  bent  her  sweet  face  near  his. 

"  I  love  you,  Oscar,"  she  whispered  ;  "  good-by— • 
Heaven  bless  you  and  comfort  you ;  good-by." 

Gently  and  tenderly  he  unclasped  her  arms  from  his 
neck  and  placed  her  on  the  pretty  rustic  seat ;  once  more 
he  kissed  her  lips,  once  more  he  said  "  good-by,  my  love— 
good-by,"  and  then,  with  an  effort  so  great  that  it  seemed 
to  rend  his  heart,  he  turned  away  and  left  her. 

He  did  not  look  back ;  if  he  had  done  so  he  must  have 
returned  to  her  again — and  that  his  reason  and  judgment 
opposed.  He  walked  with  rapid  footsteps  toward  the  house, 
and  was  soon  lost  to  sight.  She  watched  him  until  his  tall 
figure  had  disappeared  between  the  trees. 

"  Good-by,  my  love,  good-by,"  she  repeated,  with  white 
lips  ;  and  then,  drawing  her  shawl  around  her,  she  sat  per- 
fectly still. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  passing  through  the  bit- 
terness of  death.  Hour  after  hour  sped  on,  and  still  she 
sat  there,  unable  to  move,  dreading  the  time  when  she 
must  look  life  in  the  face  again. 

"  If  I  could  but  die  here,"  she  said  to  herself ;  "  if 
Heaven  would  but  take  pity  on  me,  and  send  me  eternal 
rest !  " 

How  could  she  go  back  through  the  sunlight  to  the 
house  ?  How  could  she  meet  people,  talk  to  them,  smile 
on  them  ?  How  could  she  play  her  part  in  the  daily  round 
of  life  while  her  heart  was  aching  with  terrible  pain  ?  If 
she  could  but  sit  there  in  silence  until  death  came  and 
took  her  from  her  sorrow. 

She  could  not  find  relief  in  tears,  as  some  would  have 
done  ;  her  grief  lay  too  deep  for  that.  She  had  said  good- 
by  to  him,  her  only  love  ;  there  was  nothing  now  but 
patient  endurance.  Life  could  give  her  no  greater  sorrow, 
and  it  held  no  more  joy;  it  was  all  over — all  ended. 

As  she  sat  there  in  the  glow  of  the  sunshine,  her  shorty 


REPEN7ED  A  T  LEISURE.  257 

sad  life  passed  in  review  before  her — the  happy,  careless 
days,  when  her  graceful,  fantastic,  imperious  rule  at  Foun- 
tayne  had  filled  the  whole  house  with  sunshine,  and  hei 
own  heart  with  delight ;  the  days  when  she  had  rejoiced 
in  her  father's  love,  happy  and  bright  as  the  birds  and  the 
butterflies,  desiring  nothing  beyond  it  ;  the  darker  time, 
when  pride,  anger,  and  revenge  had  taken  possession  of 
her — the  short,  fleeting  fancy  that  had  ended  so  terribly 
and  so  tragically. 

"  There  is  no  excuse  for  me,"  she  moaned — u  no  excuse ; 
but  was  ever  human  being  more  hardly  punished  for  their 
sin  ? " 

What  great,  unutterable  happiness  had  been  offered  to 
her,  which  she  had  been  compelled  to  put  aside  !  She 
might  have  been  the  happiest  woman  living.  She  might 
have  been  Sir  Oscar's  wife.  All  the  love,  the  joy,  the 
happiness  that  life  holds  might  have  been  hers,  but  she 
had  been  obliged  to  put  it  from  her  and  think  of  it  no 
more.  She  raised  her  white,  despairing  face  to  the  smil- 
ing heavens. 

"  I  have  deserved  it  all,"  she  said  ;  "  but  I  am  hardly 
punished  for  my  sin." 

It  was  noon  before  she  left  the  shade  of  the  cedar-tree 
and  returned  to  the  house.  Lady  St.  Norman  saw  her 
walking  across  the  lawn,  and  she  wondered  why  she 
walked  so  slowly  and  so  sadly.  She  looked  at  her  face 
—it  was  colorless,  with  lines  of  pain  all  around  the  sweet, 
trembling  lips.  Lady  St.  Norman  watched  her  for  some 
time  in  silence. 

"  Ethel  is  ill,"  she  said  to  herself ;  and  she  went  out  to 
meet  her. 

She  said  no  word  when  she  came  near  her — there  was 
something  in  Ethel's  face  which  forbade  speech — but  she 
went  up  to  her  room  with  her,  and  closed  the  door.  Then, 
with  open  arms,  she  turned  to  her  stepdaughter. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  Ethel,"  she  said,  gently,  "  what  is  it  ?  "  And  Ethel 
clasping  her  white  arms  round  the  kindly  neck,  hid  her  face 
on  Helen's  breast. 

"  What  is  it,  my  dear  ? "  asked  Lady  St.  Norman. 
She  felt  Ethel  shivering  like  one  extremely  cold. 

"  Helen,"  said  the  faint,  broken  voice,  "  you  were 
always  good  to  me — always  kind  to  me — shield  me  now  a 
little.  Stand  between  me  and  the  world." 

"  I  will,"  promised  Lady  St.  Norman ;  "  tell  me  one 
thing,  Ethel.  Have  you  refused  Sir  Oscar  ? " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied ;  "  I  have  refused  him,  and  he  is 
gone." 

And  then,  without  another  word,  Lady  St.  Norman  laid 
Ethel  down  upon  her  bed. 

"  Try  to  sleep,  my  dear,"  she  said  :  "  your  face  is 
flushed,  and  your  eyes  burn.  Would  it  relieve  you — would 
you  like  to  tell  me  why  you  have  refused  Sir  Oscar  ?  I 
thought  you  loved  him." 

The  girl  turned  from  her  with  a  weary  sigh. 

*'  Do  not  ask  me  to  do  so,  Helen.  You  have  always 
been  kind  to  me  ;  but  the  greatest  kindness  you  can  do 
from  this  time  forth  will  be  never  to  mention  his  name 
again ;  "  and  Ethel  turned  from  the  kindly  face  bent  ovel 
her — turned  from  the  sunlight  and  closed  her  eyes,  like 
one  tired  of  life. 

Lady  St.  Norman  was  considerate.  She  saw  that 
Ethel  was  harassed  by  some  secret  sorrow,  and  though  she 
was  both  surprised  and  puzzled,  she  did  not  comment  upon 
it.  With  a  grave,  anxious  look  on  her  face  she  went  down 
to  Lord  St.  Norman.  She  found  him  alone,  and  certainly, 
from  the  expression  of  his  countenance,  looking  not  well 
pleased. 

"  Helen,"  he  said,  "  I  cannot  understand  this.  Ethel 
has  refused  Sir  Oscar,  and  he  has  gone  away.  I  thought 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  2  j g 

she  liked  him.  How  difficult  she  is  to  please  !  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  annoyed  I  am." 

It  was  the  mission  of  this  fair  gentlewoman  to  be  a 
peace-maker.  With  a  gentle,  caressing  touch  she  laid  hel 
hand  on  her  husband's  shoulder. 

"  I  know,  Leonard,"  she  said ;  "  I  am  very  sorry  ;  but 
I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  Ethel.  Do  not  be  angry  with 
her — she  is  not  happy." 

"  She  is  never  likely  to  be,"  asserted  his  lordship,  an- 
grily. "  I  wonder  whom  she  would  really  think  good 
enough  for  her  ? " 

"  Do  you  know  what  my  idea  is,  Leonard  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  replied,  softened  by  the  sweetness  of  his 
wife's  voice  and  the  grace  of  her  manner.  "  It  is  a  sensible 
idea,  I  am  sure  ! " 

"  I  believe  that  Ethel,  in  spite  of  all  her  beauty  and 
pride,  has  had  some  great  sorrow  in  her  life." 

"  What  sorrow  could  she  have  unknown  to  us  ?"  he 
asked. 

"  I  cannot  tell.  She  is  proud  and  reserved,  you  know. 
Perhaps  she  has  liked  some  one  very  much  who  has  not 
cared  for  her  ;  she  is  not  happy ;  and  I  think  that  must 
be  the  cause.  Do  not  say  anything  to  ker,  Leonard. 
Leave  her  to  me." 

He  did  not  like  the  idea  of  his  beautiful  Ethel's  being 
imhappy. 

"  I  shall  not  say  anything  to  her,  Helen,"  he  said. 
"  You  must  manage  her  as  you  can.  You  understand  her 
better  than  I  do." 

And  when,  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  days,  Lord  St.  Nor- 
man saw  his  daughter  again,  he  said  no  word  to  her  of 
Sir  Oscar ;  nor  when  he  heard  that  Sir  Oscar  Charlcote 
had  left  England  did  he  tell  her  about  it. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

TEN  years  had  passed  since  the  fatal  summer  morning 
when  Ethel  Gordon  had  gone  out  to  her  fate — ten  long 
years — and  during  the  course  of  them  she  had  never  heard 
one  word  of  or  from  Laurie  Carrington.  She  did  not  know 
whether  he  was  alive  or  dead  ;  all  she  did  know  was  that 
she  was  bound  for  life  in  chains,  the  weight  of  which  grew 
heavier  day  by  day.  She  did  not  want  to  hear  from  him. 
She  did  not  eare  where  he  was,  nor  what  he  was  doing, 
He  had  duped  her  more  cruelly  than  ever  woman  had  been 
duped  before.  She  detested  his  name,  she  loathed  his 
memory ;  but  across  that  detestation  and  loathing  came 
the  memory  of  the  great,  passionate  love  he  had  borne  her, 
and  it  softened  her  heart  in  some  slight  degree.  She 
never  expected  to  hear  of  him  again.  It  was  ten  years 
since  that  fatal  morning.  He  might  be  living  or  he  might 
be  dead — she  should  never  know  :  but  her  life  would  be 
passed  in  suspense.  She  was  not  afraid  of  his  finding  her. 
"  If  he  had  wanted  to  find  me,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  he 
would  have  managed  it  before  now." 

It  was  eight  years  since  the  summer  morning  when  she 
had  said  farewell  to  her  lover.  During  all  that  time  she 
had  never  heard  from  him.  His  name  was  occasionally 
mentioned  in  society,  and  strangers  stated  that  he  had 
gone  to  Africa.  She  heard  of  his  travelling  in  Egypt  and 
the  Holy  Land.  She  also  heard  people  wondering  why 
he  did  not  return  to  England  and  settle  at  home.  But  from 
himself  she  had  no  word. 

Ten  years  had  gradually  changed  Ethel.     She  was  a 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  2 6 1 

graceful,  lovely  girl  when  she  went  to  St.  Ina's  ;  now  at 
twenty-eight  she  was  in  the  pride  of  her  magnificent  woman- 
hood. Sorrow  had  done  for  her  what  nothing  else  could 
have  done — it  had  refined  and  increased  her  beauty ;  the 
glorious  eyes  were  no  longer  bright  with  happy  laughter, 
but  in  their  wondrous  depths  lay  something  that  made 
one  long  to  look  at  them  again  and  again.  The  exquisite 
face  had  never  regained  its  dainty  bloom,  but  the  beauty 
of  it  was  peerless — the  sad,  sweet  lips,  the  tender,  thought- 
ful eyes,  were  more  lovely  than  ever.  The  graceful  figure 
had  reached  its  full  perfection  ;  there  was  a  queenly  dignity 
about  Ethel,  a  sweet,  tender  gravity  that  could  come  only 
from  sorrow  patiently  borne.  Hers  was  the  peerless  beauty 
of  perfect  womanhood — a  royal  dower  of  grace — and  she 
wore  her  sorrow  like  a  diadem. 

She  had  suffered  long  and  keenly  after  Sir  Oscar  went 
away,  and  then  she  learned  more  than  ever  to  value  Lady 
St.  Norman's  love  and  kindness.  Helen  shielded  her 
from  the  world ;  she  saw  that  the  girl's  heart  was  bruised, 
and  she  did  her  best  to  comfort  her.  She  stood  between 
her  and  all  impertinent  comment,  all  curious  questions — • 
she  shielded  her  from  remark,  she  bore  patiently  with  her 
long  hours  of  weary  abstraction  and  depression.  Time 
passed  on,  and  her  tender  kindness  never  failed.  Lord  St. 
Norman  concealed  his  disappointment  as  well  as  he  could  ; 
it  was  owing  to  his  wife's  gentle  admonition  that  he  never 
showed  it  to  Ethel. 

For  some  years  she  had  declined  going  to  London 
during  the  season,  and,  finding  that  the  idea  of  it  only 
gave  her  pain,  Lord  St.  Norman  ceased  to  mention  it.  It 
became  a  settled  thing  that,  when  Lord  and  Lady  St.  Nor- 
man went  to  town,  she  should  remain  at  Norman's  Keep. 
She  so  constantly  refused  all  invitations,  that  after  a  time 
people  ceased  to  invite  her.  She  was  obliged  to  meet  the 
society  that  her  father  gathered  around  him,  but  it  soon 


262  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

became  an  understood  thing  that  Miss  St.  Norman  "  never 
went  anywhere/' 

Of  course,  people  talked ;  those  who  remembered  her 
during  her  first  brilliant  season  in  London  were  astonished 
that  she  should  never  return  to  increase  her  triumphs. 
The  great  people  of  the  great  world  regretted  the  beautiful 
Miss  St.  Norman.  Those  who  had  been  her  rivals  wondered 
at  her  ;  people  asked  each  other  why  she,  who  was  so  young 
and  so  beautiful,  had  given  up  the  pleasures  of  the  world, 
and  had  buried  herself  in  the  country.  For  the  first  year  or 
two  many  invitations  were  sent  to  her,  but  she  refused  them 
all. 

"  You  should  try  to  enjoy  life,  Ethel,"  said  Lady  St. 
Norman  to  her  one  day  ;  and  Ethel,  looking  at  her  with 
sad,  sweet  eyes,  said,  simply, — 

"  What  people  call  life,  ended  for  me  long  ago,  Helen." 

It  seemed  like  it.  All  her  girlish  vivacity  had  dis- 
appeared ;  a  sweet,  patient  gravity  that  did  not  belong  to 
her  years  had  taken  its  place.  She  offered  no  murmur,  she 
uttered*  no  regret  ;  she  seemed  like  one  who  stood  aside 
while  life  with  all  its  crowd  of  events  passed  by  her. 
There  could  come  no  more  change  for  her.  Suns  rose 
and  set,  tides  ebbed  and  flowed,  the  seasons  came  and  went, 
but  all  that  there  was  left  for  her  to  do  was  to  wait  in  pa- 
tience until  the  end  came.  Never  more  would  her  heart 
stir  even  faintly  with  hope — never  more  would  joy  or  happi- 
ness still  her  pulse  or  flush  her  face  ;  it  was  all  over,  and 
she  was  waiting  for  the  end. 

How  long  would  it  be  in  coming  ?  How  many  dreary 
years  must  pass  first  ?  For,  though  her  sorrow  was  great, 
she  had  the  gifts  of  strength  and  health.  She  asked  her- 
self sometimes  how  much  longer  these  would  last,  and  ho\V 
far  off  the  longed-for  end  could  be.  It  might  not  come 
for  years  and  years.  She  pictured  the  years  as  they 
spread  out  in  dreary  length  before  her.  They  would  be 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  263 

spent  at  Norman's  Keep — she  would  never  care  to  leave 
it  again  ;  and  each  year  would  be  as  the  last — each  would 
be  dreary,  hpoeless,  and  desolate.  So  slowly  and  surely 
would  ebb  away  the  life  that  might,  but  for  her  own  folly, 
have  been  so  bright  and  joyous. 

Cheerfully  she  did  all  the  little  duties  that  fell  to  hei 
lot — she  went  to  the  village  to  assist  the  poor  and  sick  ; 
and  then  people  looked  at  the  beautiful,  saddened  face, 
and  wondered  why  Miss  St.  Norman  was  different  from 
any  one  else. 

While  the  Sabbath  bells  were  chiming,  she  walked  with 
Lord  St.  Norman  to  the  grand  old  parish  church.  Those 
who  saw  her  then  never  forgot  her — the  beautiful,  listless, 
weary  face,  the  sad  eyes  that  always  seemed  to  be  looking 
so  far  away,  the  sweet  lips  that  were  so  rarely  parted  to 
smile. 

She  sat  in  the  old  church,  while  the  sun  streamed 
through  the  windows  and  the  children's  voices  were  raised 
in  song  ;  but  those  who  saw  her  there  said  she  looked  more 
like  the  marble  statue  of  a  saint  than  like  a  living  woman. 

If  she  heard  that  any  of  the  villagers  were  in  trouble, 
she  never  rested  until  she  had  done  her  best  to  comfort 
them,  but  she  avoided  all  scenes  of  gayety  and  amusement. 
Lady  St.  Norman  was  distressed  to  see  her  turn  one  day 
faint  and  shuddering  from  the  merry  chimes  of  wedding- 
bells,  yet  neither  Lord  St.  Norman  nor  his  wife  ever 
asked  what  had  caused  the  change  in  her. 

They  were  speaking  of  her  one  evening,  when  Lord  St. 
Norman  said, — 

"  I  am  grievously  disappointed  in  my  daughter — she 
is  so  changed,  Helen.  She  used  to  be  bright  and  lively  ; 
her  laugh  was  free  and  unrestrained.  She  was  the 
pleasantest,  sweetest  girl  you  can  imagine — even  her  pride, 
her  petulance,  her  odd  caprices,  had  a  charm  of  their  own 
— she  had  a  quick  word  for  every  one  ;  now  her  pride,  her 


264  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

vivacity,  her  girlishness  seem  all  to  have  died  together. 
I  cannot  imagine  what  has  changed  her." 

"  Do  you  think,"  asked  Helen,  "  that  she  has  grieved 
about  our  marriage  ?  " 

"  Only  at  first.  When  I  came  back  from  Austria,  she 
told  me  that  she  %oped  we  should  be  married  soon,  you 
were  so  kind  to  her.  She  loves  you  very  much  now, 
Helen." 

"  Yes,"  agreed  Lady  St.  Norman,  "  she  loves  me  now." 

"  It  is  one  of  those  cases,"  observed  her  husband, 
"  where  the  womanhood  does  not  carry  out  the  promises 
of  youth.  No  one  could  be  more  beautiful  than  Ethel. 
Her  face  is  exquisite,  her  figure  is  grace  and  symmetry 
itself,  but  her  constant  depression  and  melancholy  render 
her  beauty  useless  to  her,  and  I  see  no  hope  now  of  rous- 
ing her." 

"  Nor  do  I,"  said  Helen.  "  I  do  not  think  she  will 
ever  alter." 

"  If  she  would  but  fall  in  love,  and  marry,  as  other 
girls  do  ! "  said  Lord  St.  Norman,  with  a  sigh. 

"  I  think,"  returned  Helen,  gravely,  "  that  she  has 
fallen  in  love,  but  I  do  not  think  she  will  ever  marry." 

So,  even  by  those  nearest  and  dearest  to  her,  by  those 
who  loved  her  best,  Ethel's  case  was  considered  hopeless. 

Time  passed  on,  and  nothing  broke  the  monotonous 
calm.  The  beautiful  Miss  St.  Norman  was  looked  upon 
as  some  one  different  from  the  rest  of  the  world.  Some 
said  she  was  melancholy — others  that  she  was  religious 
— others  that  she  was  peculiar — but  no  one  guessed  the 
truth,  that  she  was  one  of  the  most  unhappy  women  that 
ever  lived, 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  265 


CHAPTER  XL. 

"ANOTHER  summer  day,"  said  Ethel  to  herself— 
"  twelve  hours  of  warm,  sultry  sun,  and  then  night — another 
day  of  endurance,  uncheered  by  hope." 

She  sat  in  the  pretty  morning-room  at  Fountayne  draw- 
ing ;  a  sketch  lay  before  her,  and  she  was  copying  it,  but 
the  pencil  had  fallen  from  her  hand.  She  was  leaning 
back  in  her  chair ;  her  eyes  with  a  far-off,  dreamy  express- 
sion,  lingered  on  the  trees  and  flowers,  a  listless,  weary  ex- 
pression was  on  her  beautiful  face,  as  of  one  who  was  tired 
beyond  all  power  of  words  to  tell.  The  summer  sun  that 
rose  so  warm  and  brilliant  brought  no  change  for  her — 
brought  her  no  ray  of  hope,  no  gleam  of  light,  no  faint  star  of 
happiness — nothing  but  unchanged,  unchangeable  gloom. 

As  she  sat  there  Lady  St.  Norman  entered  the  room. 
A  faint  gleam  deepened  in  the  violet  eyes  as  they  turned 
slowly  to  welcome  her. 

Helen  went  up  to  her  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  an  un- 
welcome mission.  She  threw  one  arm  caressingly  around 
the  neck  of  the  girl  and  bent  over  her. 

"  Ethel,"  she  said,  "  I  know  you  will  not  like  what  I 
have  come  to  say  to  you." 

Not  the  faintest  light  of  interest  or  curiosity  came  into 
her  eyes. 

"  What  is  it,  Helen  ?  Tell  me  ;  I  neither  like  nor  dis- 
like anything." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  is  true,"  said  Lady  St.  Norman  ;  "  but, 
Ethel,  it  should  not  be.  If  you  could  see  the  weary,  list- 
less expression  on  your  face,  the  tired  look  of  your  eyes  ! 
Oh,  my  darling  child,  why  should  it  be  so  ?  Why  should 
you  not  be  bright,  blithe,  and  gay  ? " 


266  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  Because  I  am  tired,"  replied  the  girl.  "  But,  Helen, 
you  did  not  come  to  discuss  my  looks.  What  is  it  that 
you  know  I  shall  not  like  to  hear  ? " 

"  Your  father  insists  upon  our  acceptance  of  this  invita- 
tion to  Holmedale  Park.  We  shall  be  compelled  to  go." 

"  He  does  not  include  me,  Helen ;  he  is  speaking 
only  of  you  and  himself.  Why  should  I  go  to  Holme- 
dale  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid,  darling,  he  does  include  you.  He  has 
been  very  patient,  Ethel — you  must  remember  that ;  for 
some  years  he  has  allowed  you  to  remain  at  home  and  do 
as  you  would  in  every  way." 

"  Why  does  he  wish  to  alter  that  now  ?  "  asked  Ethel, 
but  there  was  no  impatience  in  her  voice,  no  interest. 

"  It  would  require  a  long  explanation  to  tell  you  why," 
replied  Lady  St.  Norman.  "  There  is  some  grand  political 
combination  on  foot,  and  our  party  want  to  win  Lord  Leigh- 
ton  to  their  side,  and  he  is  at  present  wavering  in  the  balance. 
He  has  invited  us  all  to  visit  him,  and  your  name  was  es- 
pecially mentioned,  as  his  only  daughter,  Clarice  Leighton 
is  at  home,  and  he  wishes  you  to  know  her.  Ethel,  I  have 
never  asked  you  to  give  up  your  own  wishes  or  your  own 
inclination  before,  but  I  do  so  now.  It  will  please  your 
father,  and  if  you  can  please  him,  do." 

"  I  will  go,"  agreed  Ethel.  "  It  does  not  matter  much 
where  one  is.  I  will  go  to  please  him." 

"  And  a  little  to  please  yourself,"  added  Lady  St.  Nor- 
man, with  a  smile.  "  Confess,  now,  that  it  will  be  pleasant 
to  meet  nice  people  and  have  a  little  enjoyment." 

"  I  cannot  see  any  prospect  of  pleasure,  Helen ;  but  I 
will  go,  as  I  would  do  anything  else  in  reason  to  please 
papa," 

If  she  had  known  what  going  to  Holmedale  was  to 
bring  forth — if  she  had  known  that  all  the  dreary  monotony 
of  her  life  was  to  be  broken  up,  never  to  be  resumed — if 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  267 

she  had  foreseen  the  troubled  joy  and  bitter  sorrow  in  store 
for  her,  she  would  not  have  spoken  so  quietly  of  going. 

Two  days  afterward  they  went  to  Holmedale,  a  beautiful 
estate  in  the  most  picturesque  part  of  Cornwall,  Lord  Leigh- 
ton's  family  seat,  known  to  every  artist  and  every  lover 
of  English  scenery.  Lord  Leighton  had  met  the  St.  Nor- 
mans during  the  previous  season  in  London.  He  had  con- 
ceived a  great  liking  for  the  society  of  Lord  St.  Norman, 
as  his  wife  had  done  for  that  of  Lady  Helen,  and  the  visit 
was  the  result  of  a  promise  made  in  London. 

Lady  Leighton  had  expressed  a  great  desire  to  see  Ethel, 
and  Lord  St.  Norman  had  promised  them  that  he  would 
bring  her  to  Holmedale.  As  Lady  St.  Norman  had  said, 
a  great  political  combination  had  arisen,  and  the  visit  was 
one  of  policy  as  well  as  of  pleasure. 

The  journey  was  delightful,  and  their  welcome  at  the 
hall  warm  and  affectionate.  Clarice  Leighton,  who  had 
hoped  for  the  gay  society  of  a  beautiful  girl,  was  somewhat 
dismayed  when  she  was  introduced  to  the  magnificently 
lovely  woman  whose  sad,  sweet  eyes  had  a  story  in  their 
depths.  There  was  no  hope  of  gay  companionship  with 
her.  Lady  Leighton  was  startled  by  her  wondrous  beauty. 
She  said  afterward  to  her  husband, — 

"  Miss  St.  Norman  is  the  most  beautiful  girl  I  have  ever 
seen ;  but  there  is  some  sad  experience  in  her  face." 

A  large  party  was  gathered  at  Holmedale,  and  Lord 
Leighton  told  the  St.  Normans  that  other  visitors  were  ex- 
pected ;  and  they  looked  forward  to  a  pleasant  and  agree- 
able sojourn.  It  was  on  the  third  day  after  their  arrival 
that  some  one  expressed  a  wish  to  see  the  beautiful  Holme 
Woods,  already  famed  in  song  and  in  story.  Lady  Leighton 
proposed  a  picnic  luncheon  there,  and  the  idea  was  cor- 
dially welcomed. 

During  dinner  the  discussion  turned  on  the  educa* 


268  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

tion  of  the  lower  classes,  for  which  Lord  Leighton  himself 
was  a  great  advocate. 

"  I  was  astonished  the  other  day/'  he  said,  "  on  going 
into  a  cottage  belonging  to  one  of  my  keepers,  to  find  a 
volume  of  Racine  on  the  table,  and  to  see  one  of  Goethe's 
most  famous  works  on  the  book-shelf.  The  man  came  in 
shortly  afterward,  and  I  found  that  he  was  an  excellent 
French  and  German  scholar." 

"  That  is  the  march  of  education,  indeed,"  said  Lord 
St.  Norman — "  a  keeper  who  is  a  good  linguist." 

"  I  confess  to  have  felt  some  degree  of  surprise  myself,'" 
acknowledged  Lord  Leighton.  "  But  why  should  I  have 
felt  it  ?  The  man  may  have  had  a  good  education  ;  and 
what  an  infinite  source  of  pleasure  it  must  be  to  him !  " 

"  I  should  imagine  him  to  be  somebody  in  disguise," 
said  Miss  Leighton,  laughingly — "  the  heir  of  some  noble 
house." 

"  He  is  one  of  the  best  servants  I  have  ever  had,"  ob- 
served Lord  Leighton.  "  He  has  been  with  me  rather  more 
than  a  year,  and  he  knows  every  tree  in  the  woods,  I  believe. 
He  would  make  an  excellent  guide  for  to-morrow.  You 
will  want  to  see  the  waterfall,  and  all  the  beauties  of  the 
neighborhood.  I  must  send  word  to  him  to  be  in  readiness." 

"  What  is  the  name  of  your  accomplished  keeper  ? " 
asked  one  of  the  guests,  carelessly. 

<c  He  rejoices  in  the  very  English  name  of  John  Smith," 
replied  Lord  Leighton  ;  "  and  I  think  the  prejudice  against 
the  name  of  Smith  a  very  unjust  one." 

A  discussion  then  rose  over  names,  and  the  keeper  who 
spoke  French  and  German  was  forgotten. 

The  morrow  rose  bright  and  beautiful,  a  summer  day 
without  a  cloud ;  the  wind  was  sweet,  soft,  and  fragrant. 

"  The  deep  shade  of  the  woods  will  be  cool  and  pleas- 
ant to-day/'  said  Lady  Leighton,  And  her  visitors  agreed 
with  her. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  269 

Some  of  the  ladies  took  books,  others  took  fancy-work, 
and  it  was  settled  that  the  party  should  spend  the  whole 
day  in  the  woods,  but  should  meet  at  the  waterfall  for  lun' 
cheon  at  two. 

On  this  warm  bright  summer  day  there  were  no  gor 
geous  toilets  ;  the  ladies  were  content  with  dresses  of  mus- 
lin. Ethel  wore  one  of  blue,  with  a  pretty  white  lace  man- 
tilla, and  a  hat  with  a  white  drooping  plume  ;  and  Lady 
St.  Norman,  as  she  looked  at  her,  thought  she  had  never 
appeared  more  lovely — her  queenly  grace,  her  exquisite 
beauty,  her  royal  dignity  of  manner,  all  showed  on  that  day 
to  the  greatest  advantage. 

"  Ethel,"  said  Lady  St.  Norman,  "  try  to  enjoy  yourself 
to-day.  I  wish  that  I  could  put  a  little  of  this  sunshine 
into  your  heart." 

But  Ethel  only  stooped  and  kissed  the  kindly,  anxious 
face. 

"  The  sunshine  would  be  of  no  use  to  me,"  she  thought* 
"  My  sun  has  set." 

At  the  large  gates  that  led  to  the  woods  they  were  met 
by  the  keeper — a  tall,  handsome  man,  whose  eyes  were 
keen  and  blue ;  his  features  could  hardly  be  distinguished 
because  of  his  broad-brimmed  hat,  and  long  mustache,  and 
beard,  and  thick,  curly  hair.  He  doffed  his  hat  with  an 
air  of  good  breeding  not  lost  upon  the  ladies.  He  spoke, 
and  his  voice  was  pleasant,  his  accent  good ;  his  figure  was 
tall  and  well  formed,  his  manners  were  certainly  superior 
to  his  position.  He  stood  in  silence  while  Lord  Leighton 
discussed  where  they  should  go  first. 

"  Let  us  see.  We  will  visit  Leighton's  Folly  first,"  he 
said — "that  is  the  ruin  of  a  picturesque  old  dovrer-house 
built  in  the  Italian  style  by  one  of  the  Leighton  ladies  many 
years  ago." 

They  went.  A  group  of  ladies  stood  round  the  rim  of 
a  fountain,  when  the  keeper  first  caught  a  glimpse  of  Ethel 


270 


REPENTED  AT  LEISURE. 


She  was  standing  under  the  shade  of  a  large  copper-beach, 
and  a  light  like  that  of  burnished  gold  fell  over  her — fell 
on  the  beautiful,  sad  face,  the  cloud-like  dress,  and  the 
rich,  rippling  masses  of  brown  hair.  As  he  looked,  his 
handsome  face  first  flushed  deepest  crimson,  and  then  grew 
pale  as  death.  He  muttered  something  to  himself — some 
strange  words — and  the  keys  that  he  held  in  his  hand  fell 
to  the  ground.  He  stooped  to  raise  them,  and  then  with- 
drew that  he  might  watch  the  beautiful  face  more  closely. 

"  It  cannot  be  Ethel,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  It  cannot 
be  she.  Great  heavens  !  am  I  mad  or  dreaming  ?  Shall 
I  wake  up  and  find  myself  at  St.  Ina's,  and  all  that  black, 
horrible  time  only  a  dream — only  a  dream  ?  Ah,  if  it  could 
but  be  so !  It  cannot  be  she." 

Ethel  moved  as  she  watched  her,  and  a  sharp,  keen  pain 
shot  through  his  heart. 

"  It  is  Ethel.  I  know  that  smile,  that  graceful  bend  of 
the  neck,  that  curve  of  the  sweet,  proud  lips.  It  is  she  ; 
it  is  Ethel — my  wife — my  wife  !  " 

,    He  turned    aside — that    strong,  powerful   man — with 
eyes  dimmed  with  tears. 

"  I  have  found  her  at  last,"  he  said  to  himself — "  Ethel 
Ethel— my  wife  1 " 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


271 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

LUNCHEON  was  all  arranged  after  the  most  orderly  and 
picturesque  fashion,  and  the  laughing,  happy  party  were 
gathered  around  it.  Ethel  sat  next  to  Clarice  ;  some  half 
dozen  gentlemen  had  tried  to  get  a  place  near  her,  but  she 
had  cleverly  evaded  them  all.  Clarice  was  busy  over  some 
beautiful  grapes.  Looking  up,  laughingly,  she  said, — 

"  Dp  you  notice  our  disguised  heir,  the  keeper  ?  He 
is  a  very  handsome  man.  There  he  is,  standing  by  the 
well — and  how  intently  he  is  watching  us  !  " 

"  I  did  not  notice  him,"  returned  Ethel,  calmly. 

But  when  Clarice  had  turned  to  the  gentleman  nearest  to 
her,  she  looked  across  at  the  keeper,  whose  eyes  were 
fixed  intently  on  her  face. 

At  first  she  felt  inclined  to  resent  the  intent,  earnest 
gaze ;  a  proud  flush  of  annoyance  rose  to  her  beautiful  face  ; 
and  then  there  seemed  to  be  something  familiar  in  those 
keen  blue  eyes — something  familiar,  though  half-forgotten, 
in  that  handsome  debonnair  face — something  in  the  pose 
of  the  tall  figure  which  struck  her  with  a  thrill  of  uneasi 
ness. 

The  truth  came  to  her  at  last  with  a  keen,  sharp  pain, 
a  feeling  of  despair — it  came  to  like  a  flash  of  lightning, 
and  she  knew  that  the  man  looking  so  wistfully,  so  ear- 
nestly at  her  was  no  other  than  her  husband,  Laurie  Car- 
rington. 

She  did  not  cry  or  faint ;  no  deadly  swoon  came  to  her 
aid.  She  sat  still  and  endured  her  agony.  Neither  rack 
nor  scaffold  ever  gave  greater  torture  than  Ethel  suffered 
as  the  truth  flashed  across  her.  The  long  calm,  the  dreary 


272  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

monotony,  was  broken  at  last ;  the  respite  was 
She  had  borne  the  suspense  of  the  long  years,  now  she  had 
to  meet  the  consequences  of  her  folly  ;  there  could  be  no 
more  calm  oblivion.  He  had  returned,  and  the  secret 
could  be  one  no  longer. 

While  the  others  talked  and  laughed,  while  the  sound 
of  happy  voices  filled  her  ears,  she  sat  still  and  thought. 
One  or  two,  looking  at  the  beautiful,  sad  face,  wondered 
what  the  story  was  that  was  written  there.  Lady  St.  Nor- 
man saw  that  Ethel's  features  were  listless  no  longer,  that 
a  look  of  intent  thoughtfulness  had  deepened  on  them. 
Ethel  was  thinking  what  was  to  come  next.  Would  he 
claim  her,  this  husband  of  hers  ?  Would  he  dare  tell  the 
world  the  shameful  story  of  how  he  had  practised  on  her 
youth — how  he  had  duped  her,  lured  her  to  her  ruin,  im- 
posed on  her  girlish  simplicity  and  ignorance  ?  Would  he 
dare  to  tell  that  story  to  the  world  ? 

If  he  did  claim  her,  could  she  be  forced  to  go  to  him  ? 
No — she  thought  not.  Her  father  would  surely  befriend 
her,  unless,  knowing  what  she  had  done,  he  grew  angry 
with  her,  and  cast  her  off.  She  would  never  go  to  Laurie 
Carrington,  even  if  he  had  recourse  to  the  law,  and  the 
law  directed  her.  She  would  kill  herself  rather  than  sub. 
mit. 

Supposing  that  he  did  not  claim  her — that  he  only 
haunted  her — how  was  she  to  bear  it  ?  The  terrible  reality 
of  what  she  had  done  had  never  come  home  to  her  until 
now.  Since  the  fatal  hour  of  her  marriage  she  had  never 
seen  him,  and  the  oblivion  that  seemed  to  have  fallen  over 
him  made  her  lot  perhaps  easier  to  bear;  but,  now  that 
she  saw  him  again,  the  disgrace,  the  humiliation,  the  deg- 
radation of  her  position  flashed  across  her — at  any  mo- 
ment this  man,  who  was  a  common  forger,  might  claim 
her — publicly  claim  her  as  his  wife.  If  she  knew  what  he 
intended  to  do,  it  would  be  easier  to  bear. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


273 


While  her  whole  soul  was  racked  with  terrible  suspense 
and  terrible  anguish,  by  the  torture  of  shame  and  the 
deadly  fear  of  exposure,  she  was  obliged  to  answer  ques- 
tions, to  smile  in  reply  to  remarks  made  to  her.  She  could 
have  cried  aloud  in  her  anguish,  she  could  have  prayed  to 
the  blue  heavens  to  fall  upon  and  hide  her.  Yet  she  was 
outwardly  calm — only  the  quivering  of  the  sweet  lips  and 
the  tight  clinching  of  the  white  hands  betrayed  that  she 
was  not  as  calm  as  she  appeared. 

She  felt  that  the  crisis  of  her  life  had  arrived,  and  she 
braced  herself  to  meet  it.  Gradually  she  calmed  the 
trembling  nerves. 

"  I  must  bear  my  fate,"  she  thought.  "  No  regret,  no 
complaint  will  be  of  the  least  use  to  me.  I  have  borne 
before,  and  I  must  bear  again.  Endurance  is  the  great 
lesson  of  life." 

She  must  bear  it.  Let  life  bring  what  it  might,  it  must 
end.  She  was  passive  in  the  hands  of  her  fate.  When 
she  roused  herself,  Clarice  was  laughing  at  her. 

"You  are  in  dreamland,  Miss  St  Norman,"  she  said. 
"  When  you  feel  disposed  to  return,  will  you  answer  papa's 
question  ?  He  is  asking  if  you  would  like  to  go  to  the 
Priory.  The  ruins  are  pretty,  but  not  large." 

Ethel  turned  with  a  crimson  face  to  Lord  Leighton. 

"  I  should  like  it  very  much,"  she  said,  without  knowing 
in  the  least  what  she  was  saying. 

Then  they  all  rose  and  went  away  together.  She  did 
not  turn  round  to  look  at  her  husband.  She  never  even 
glanced  that  way.  If  he  intended  to  speak  to  her  he  would 
without  doubt  find  an  opportunity  ;  she  would  not.  Yet 
she  would  not  have  felt  in  the  least  surprised  if  he  had 
claimed  her  publicly  and  called  her  his  wife. 

She  walked  over  the  green  sward,  the  wild  flowers 
clustering  beneath  her  feet,  the  green  boughs  tossing  and 
waving  above  her  head. 


274  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  Am  I  dead  to  all  pain  ? "  she  asked  herself — for  the 
stupor  of  despair  that  had  overwhelmed  her,  prevented  her 
feeling  the  full  smart  of  her  sorrow. 

More  than  once  that  day — that  long,  dreary,  never-to- 
be-forgotten  day — did  she  hear  the  sound  of  his  voice  quite 
close  to  her ;  but  she  never  looked  at  him.  The  sound 
made  her  faint  and  ill,  it  made  her  shudder  with  loathing 
and  dread.  More  than  once  in  passing,  the  folds  of  her 
dress  touched  him.  She  did  not  draw  them  aside  with  a 
haughty  gesture  ;  she  would  not  seem  to  avoid  him  or  to 
seek  for  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  him.  She  called 
all  her  natural  pride  and  dignity  to  her  aid — she  bore  her- 
self with  royal  grace. 

Only  Heaven  knew  how  great  her  relief  was  when  Lord 
Leighton  said  that  it  was  time  to  return.  The  party  was 
divided  into  laughing,  merry  groups.  Some  one  was  talk- 
ing to  Ethel,  and  she  saw  the  keeper  coming  toward  her 
with  something  white  in  his  hand. 

"  He  is  coming  to  claim  me,"  she  thought,  and  a  flame 
of  true  courage  seemed  to  flash  from  her  heart  to  her  face 
She  stood  proudly  erect  to  meet  the  blow.  "  I  will  die 
hard,"  she  thought  to  herself  with  a  bitter  smile. 

He  was  standing  before  her,  hat  in  hand,  bowing  low, 
as  a  slave  before  an  empress.  He  held  out  a  small  folded 
paper. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  "  but  this  I  think  belongs 
to  you." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily,  and  his  eyes  fell  before  her 
proud,  serene  gaze.  For  one  half  minute  she  was  tempted 
to  defy  him — to  say  it  was  not  hers,  and  then  turn  proudly 
away.  But  something  like  a  gleam  of  pity  for  him  came 
over  her,  and  she  took  the  paper  from  him.  He  turned 
quickly  away. 

At  .last  she  was  alone  in  her  room  at  Holmedale  Park. 
She  never  remembered  returning  ;  but  she  was  there,  hold* 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  275 

ing  that  folded  paper  in  her  hand.  A  mist  swam  before 
her  eyes  ;  a  proud,  indignant  flush  rose  to  her  face.  The 
words  of  the  paper  filled  her  with  an  indescribable  loathing  : 

"  I  have  found  you,  Ethel — my  wife — at  last,  after  look 
ing  for  you  for  long  months.  I  have  found  you,  and  once 
more  looked  upon  that  face  which  contains  all  the  beauty 
of  earth  for  me.  Ethel,  I  must  speak  to  you.  I  never 
thought  when  the  sun  rose  that  I  should  see  you  before  it 
had  set.  Ethel,  I  must  see  you.  Will  you  walk  to-morrow 
in  the  Holme  Woods,  as  I  will  be  there  ?  I  have  so  much 
to  say  to  you  ;  but  I  can  think  of  nothing  now,  except  that 
I  have  seen  you,  Ethel,  my  beautiful  wife." 

She  tore  the  paper  into  a  thousand  shreds. 

"  I  will  not  meet  him,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  He  is  a 
released  felon.  He  has  deceived  me  once,  but  he  shall 
never  deceive  me  again.  He  may  do  what  he  pleases,  but 
I  will  not  meet  him." 

Her  anger  and  indignation  were  most  violent ;  they 
outrivaled  her  despair.  Then  the  requirements  of  society 
had  to  be  met.  She  was  obliged  to  go  down  to  dinner, 
and  look  as  composed  as  could  be.  She  would  not  go  out 
at  all  on  the  day  following,  lest  he  should  be  waiting  and 
see  her. 

"  He  must  understand,  once  and  for  all,  that  there  can 
be  no  word  between  him  and  me,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  If 
he  persists  in  claiming  me,  my  friends  must  shield  me,  or 
I  will  go  away  and  hide  myself." 

So  she  spent  the  whole  day  in  the  house,  and  would 
not  leave  it. 

Three  days  passed,  and  she  heard  no  word  of  him. 
She  never  forgot  the  slow  torture  of  those  days,  the  miser- 
able suspense,  the  uncertainty.  Every  noise  alarmed  her,, 
every  voice  startled  her ;  she  was  every  moment  expecting 


276  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

dreading,  fearing  that  he  would  make  some  sign — yet  from 
him  came  none. 

She  heard  at  last.  As  they  stood  one  morning,  just 
after  luncheon,  discussing  some  charades  that  were  to  be 
acted  that  evening,  Ethel  saw  a  footman  coming  toward 
her  with  a  beautiful  basket  of  ferns  in  his  hand.  The  man 
bowed  and  held  them  out  to  her. 

"  The  keeper  has  sent  these,  miss,  and  he  says  you  will 
find  a  list  of  ferns  inside/' 

She  was  compelled  to  take  it  because  so  many  people 
were  looking  on,  but  her  face  flushed  proudly.  Lord  Leigh- 
ton  smiled. 

"  Smith  told  me  yesterday,  Miss  St.  Norman,  that  he 
was  looking  for  some  ferns  for  you.  You  wished  for  some, 
I  suppose  ? " 

She  would  not  have  told  an  untruth  to  save  her  life. 
Fortunately,  Lord  Leighton  did  not  wait  for  a  reply. 

"  Holme  Woods  have  always  been  famous  for  their 
ferns,"  he  said.  "  I  am  glad  you  have  so  beautiful  a  col- 
lection, Miss  St.  Norman." 

And  Ethel,  with  a  smile,  turned  away. 


REPENTED  AT  LEISURE.  277 


CHAPTER  XLIL 

"  I  AM  not  surprised,  Ethel  " — so  the  second  letter  ran 
— "  that  you  refuse  to  see  me  ;  but,  my  wife,  it  must  be. 
Desperate  men  do  desperate  deeds,  and  I  have  long  been 
desperate.  I  must  see  you  and  speak  to  you.  I  have 
wronged  you  enough,  Ethel ;  I  cannot  bear  to  bring  more 
sorrow  upon  you.  I  do  not  want  to  make  the  secret  that 
binds  us  public.  Let  me  see  you  and  arrange  for  our  future. 
Oh,  Ethel,  Ethel !  let  me  look  once  more  into  the  heaven 
of  your  eyes,  and  I  shall  be  content.  Let  me  speak  to 
you  once  more,  and,  Ethel,  you  shall  do  with  me  as  you 
will.  I  ask  one  grace  from  you — do  not  hate  me  for  the 
wrong  that  I  have  done  you  !  " 

She  read  the  letter,  and  despite  her  anger,  she  felt 
something  like  pity  for  him.  He  has  loved  her  so  dearly, 
he  had  worshipped  her  so  passionately.  Moreover,  the  tone 
of  his  letter  was  so  humble.  He  promised  to  do  as  she 
wished.  Perhaps,  after  all,  the  shame  and  disgrace  of  a 
public  scandal  might  be  spared,  her  secret  kept.  Perhaps 
he  would  promise  never  to  molest  her — never  to  claim  her  : 
and  by  that  one  interview  she  might  secure  peace. 

She  would  go  and  meet  him,  she  decided.  She  would 
hear  what  he  had  to  say.  Not  that  it  would  make  any  dif- 
ference now,  but  she  might  persuade  him  to  go  away  and 
leave  her  in  peace.  She  would  meet  him  in  the  woods  ;  it 
would  be  very  easy  for  her  to  get  away  under  the  pretext 
of  sketching.  Even  if  she  were  seen  speaking  to  him, 
nothing  would  be  thought  of  it,  because  it  was  known  that 
he  had  been  collecting  ferns  for  her. 


278  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

So  she  wrote  a  little  note,  telling  him  that  she  would  be  in 
Holme  Woods  on  the  day  following.  The  note  was  so 
written  that  all  the  world  might  have  read  it,  and  have 
seen  no  more  in  it  than  a  simple  desire  to  procure  more 
ferns.  The  note  was  returned  with  the  basket  to  John 
Smith,  the  keeper. 

##:*##### 

The  hour  came  when  they  two — husband  and  wife,  who 
had  been  as  strangers — stood  face  to  face.  They  met  in 
the  woods  while  the  sun  was  full  at  noon,  and  the  world 
smiling  under  its  warm  caress.  They  stood  face  to  face, 
she  looking  calmly  at  him.  After  a  longing,  wistful,  pitiful 
glance,  he  fell  on  his  knees  at  her  feet. 

"  Ethel !  "  he  cried,  "  I  have  longed  to  see  you  ;  but 
now  that  you  are  here,  I  hardly  dare  to  look  at  your  face. 
I  am  ashamed." 

"  It  was  a  cruel  deception,  Mr.  Carrington,"  she  said, 
in  a  clear,  pitiless  voice — "  cruel,  base,  and  unmanly.  You 
took  a  mean  advantage  of  my  youth — you  lured  me  to  what 
you  knew  was  my  ruin." 

"  I  know  it,  Ethel.  I  have  no  excuse  to  offer  except 
that  I  loved  you  dearly.  I  could  not  live  without  you — 
and  love  urged  me  on." 

"  Pray,  do  not  speak  of  love,"  she  said,  with  calm,  grave 
contempt.  "As  I  understand  the  word,  you  knew  nothing 
of  it.  When  men  love  they  spare,  and  are  merciful.  You 
had  no  pity  upon  me.  Heaven  help  me  now." 

"  O,  Ethel !  beautiful  Ethel — speak  one  word  to  me  ! 
I  would  give  my  life  to  undo  what  I  did  then — I  would 
suffer  anything  to  give  you  back  your  freedom." 

"  It  is  too  late,"  she  said.  "  Your  pity  comes  all  too 
late." 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  different,"  he  explained.  "  I 
never  meant  you  to  know  the  story  of  my  sin.  I  thought 
I  could  persuade  you  to  go  to  America  with  me  ;  and,  Ethel 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


279 


I  would  have  made  you  happy — I  would  have  given  you  all 
that  your  heart  desired." 

"  That  is,  you  would  have  kept  me  on  the  proceeds  of 
forgery  and  theft  ?  "  she  interrupted,  passionately. 

"  No — not  so.  I  loved  you  so  dearly  that  your  love 
would  have  made  a  good  man  of  me." 

"I  have  missed  a  glorious  mission,"  she  said,  mock- 
ingly. 

"  Oh,  Ethel,"  he  pleaded,  "  do  not  be  so  hard  upon 
me !  See,  I  am  kneeling,  praying  to  you  for  one  kind 
word.  Give  me  that,  and  I  will  go  away — I  will  go  to  the 
utmost  ends  of  the  earth,  where  no  sight  of  me  shall  ever 
trouble  you  again.  One  kind  word,  Ethel !  " 

"  I  shall  never  speak  it,"  she  said,  haughtily.  "  What 
right  have  you,  who  have  marred  my  whole  life,  to  ask  one 
kind  word  from  me  ?  " 

"  Have  I  blighted  all  your  life,  Ethel  ? "  he  asked, 
sadly. 

"  You  must  know  that  you  have.  I  was  only  a  child 
when  you  met  me — a  fearless,  ignorant,  wilful  child.  You 
played  upon  my  pride — upon  my  foolish  wish  for  revenge 
• — and  so  persuaded  me  to  marry  you.  You  knew  that  I 
was  too  young  to  understand  how  solemn  and  serious  a 
thing  marriage  is.  Had  you  been  all  that  you  represented 
yourself — had  you  been  a  gentleman,  a  man  of  honor — it 
would  still  have  been  base  and  bad  enough.  But  you  were 
not  a  gentleman ;  you  were  a  forger.  You  were  not  an 
honorable  man,  but  a  thief.  Soiled  and  stained  with  crime, 
how  dared  you  marry  me  ?  " 

"  How  dared  I  ?  "  he  echoed.  "  Oh,  Ethel,  it  was  the 
irresistible  might  of  my  love  !  " 

"  Of  your  selfishness  rather  !  "  she  cried.  "  It  was  not 
love.  You  have  blighted  my  whole  life." 

He  looked  up  at  her  with  a  wistful,  piteous  glance. 

"  Ethel,"  he  said,  humbly,  "  did  you  ever  love  me  ?  " 


2go  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  "  never  in  the  least.  You  flattered 
me,  you  gratified  my  foolish  pride,  you  made  my  anticipated 
revenge  seem  very  sweet ;  but  I  never  loved  you,  not  even 
on  that  summer  morning  when  we  stood  in  the  old  church 
together.  You  flattered  me,  and  I  had  a  kindly  liking  for 
you  which  I  mistook  for  love.  I  knew  afterward  that  I 
never  had  loved  and  never  could  love  you." 

"  What  has  become  of  your  liking,  Ethel  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  It  has  changed  into  unutterable  contempt,"  she  re- 
plied— "  contempt  that  lies  too  deep  for  words." 

"  I  cannot  expect  anything  else,"  he  said,  mournfully. 
"  I  deserve  it  all.  It  was  selfish  and  cruel ;  but  I  loved 
you  so  dearly,  Ethel.  I  would  die  to  undo  it.  I  thought 
it  would  all  be  so  different.  I  thought  we  should  go  to 
some  distant  land  where  I  might  spend  my  whole  life  in 
loving  you  and  toiling  for  you — where  you  would  never 
hear  of  my  sin.  I  would  not  have  made  you  my  wife  if  I 
had  foreseen  what  was  to  happen.  Ethel — do  not  be  afraid 
— tell  me,  have  you  seen  any  one  whom  you  could  have 
loved  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  have  seen  one  such — I  have  loved  and  parted 
with  the  man  who  loved  me,  and  who  would  have  made  my 
life  all  fair  and  bright  but  for  you." 

"  I  am  so  sorry — oh,  if  I  could  but  free  you,  Ethel !  " 

"  It  is  too  late  for  freedom  to  benefit  me,"  she  rejoined. 
"  Live  your  life,  repent  of  your  sin — your  death  could  do 
no  good  to  me." 

"  Ethel !  one  kind  word  !  Oh !  if  you  knew  what  I  have 
suffered,  the  torture  I  have  experienced  in  longing  for  one 
glimpse  of  you — for  one  word  from  you.  I  am  a  wicked 
man ;  my  crime  was  great,  but  my  sufferings  have  ex- 
ceeded it.  I  bade  you  good-by  at  that  little  gate,  hoping 
in  a  few  short  hours,  to  be  far  away  with  you,  my  beautiful, 
beloved  wife,  by  my  side.  Can  you  imagine  what  I  en- 
dured when  I  was  captured  and  taken  away  ?  " 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  2S I 

"  It  was  but  the  just  reward  for  your  mean  and  wretched 
sin,"  she  replied. 

Something  like  a  sob  came  from  his  lips. 

"  You  are  so  cruelly  haid,  Ethel,"  he  said — "so  terribly 
hard.  I  am  kneeling  here  at  your  feet,  sad  and  humble. 
I  do  not  ask  for  your  love — only  for  your  pity — not  even  for 
your  liking — only  for  your  pardon,  and  you  refuse  it  to 
me." 

"  I  do  refuse  it,"  returned  the  clear,  sweet,  pitiless 
voice.  "  Such  a  wrong  as  you  did  me  deserves  no  pardon 
— can  have  none.  I  will  never  forgive  you  for  having 
blighted  my  life." 

"  I  will  undo  what  I  have  done,  if  I  can,"  he  offered, 
sadly.  "There  is  one  way  in  which  you  can  be  freed  from 
me,  Ethel.  Tell  your  father — I  hear  that  he  is  a  man  of 
great  influence — tell  him  your  story,  and  let  him  take  pro- 
ceedings for  a  divorce." 

"  It  would  be  useless  if  I  did,"  she  rejoined  ;  "  my 
freedom  would  not  benefit  me.  I  would  rather  die  than 
tell  an  honorable  gentieman  like  my  father  that  I  had  mar- 
ried a  felon." 

A  low  cry  came  from  his  lips. 

"  Oh,  Ethel,  Ethel,  you  wound  me  !  I  cannot  bear  the 
sound  of  such  words  from  your  lips  ;  "  and  in  the  silence 
of  the  sweet  summer  morning  she  heard  him  sob  like  a 
grieving  child. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


CHAPTER    XLIII. 

"  I  HAVE  no  wish  to  be  hard  upon  you,"  said  Ethel  to 
her  husband  ;  "  but  it  was  a  cruel  thing  to  do — to  persuade 
a  girl  so  young  and  ignorant  to  take  so  serious  a  step  as 
marriage  ;  it  was  a  most  cruel  thing,  and  I  repeat  that  I 
can  never  forgive  you  !  " 

He  raised  his  face,  and  she  saw  that  it  was  wet  with 
tears. 

"  Even  if  I  were  rich,  then,  Ethel — if  I  could  lavish 
every  luxury  on  you — if  I  could  make  you  one  of  the  first 
women  in  England — even  then  you  would  not  care  for 
me  ? " 

"  No/7  she  replied.  "  You  have  failed  in  honor,  not 
to  mention  honesty  ;  how  could  I  possibly  care  for  you  ? " 

He  was  silent  for  some  little  time,  and  then  he  raised 
his  eyes  sadly  to  her  proud  face. 

"  I  cannot  expect  you  to  pardon  me,"  he  said.  "  What 
can  I  do  to  help  you,  Ethel ;  to  free  you  from  myself — 
what  can  I  do  ?  If  it  pleases  you  best,  I  will  go  away 
from  here,  and  I  will  promise  never  again  while  I  live  and 
you  live  to  come  near  you  to  trouble  or  annoy  you.  Or,  if 
it  pleases  you  better,  Ethel,  I  will  wait  here  until,  with 
your  father's  help,  you  have  obtained  a  divorce — it  would 
not  be  difficult." 

"  It  would  be  useless,"  she  replied.  "  Men  cannot  put 
asunder  those  whom  Heaven  has  joined.  I  should  never 
marry." 

"  I  will  do  anything  that  will  please  you,  Ethel,  or  what- 
ever you  think  best,"  he  pursued.  "  One  thing  I  promise 
you— the  wrong  I  have  done  you  is  great  enough  ;  I  will 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  283 

make  it  no  worse.  I  will  keep  the  secret  inviolably  ;  it 
shall  never  escape  me ;  I  will  not  presume  upon  it. 
Ethel,  you  may  trust  me  ;  I  would  rather  lose  my  life  than 
betray  you  any  further  !  " 

That  was  some  relief  to  her  ;  the  public  exposure  that 
she  had  dreaded  would  not  take  place. 

"  You  wish  for  time  to  consider,"  he  said,  gently.  "  If 
you  decide  that  I  must  go  away,  I  shall  need  some  few 
days  to  prepare.  Will  you  take  a  week  to  think  over  what 
would  suit  you  and  please  you  best  ?  Will  you  meet  me 
here  in  the  woods  at  the  same  hour  just  one  week  from  to- 
day ? " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  wearily,  "  I  will  be  here." 

"  Ethel,"  he  cried,  passionately,  "  will  you  not  give 
me  one  kind  word  ?  " 

"  I  cannot,"  she  replied.  "  It  would  simply  be  hypoc- 
risy if  I  did.  You  have  ruined  my  whole  life.  When  I 
forget  that,  I  may  pardon  you." 

"  Will  you  let  me  tell  you  the  story  of  my  life,"  he 
asked — "  of  my  youth,  my  temptations,  and  my  fall  ?  You 
would,  perhaps  take  more  pity  on  me  if  you  knew  all." 

She  raised  her  white  hand  with  a  gesture  that  demanded 
silence. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  one  word  of  it,"  she  said.  "  I 
must  go.  I  will  do  as  you  suggest.  I  will  take  one  week 
to  consider,  and  then  tell  you  what  plan  I  think  is  best  for 
you  to  adopt." 

She  looked  at  him  as  she  spoke — at  the  handsome  face 
the  eyes  dim  with  tears — and  a  feeling  of  pity  came  over 
her. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  be  hard  upon  you,"  she  said,  gently, 
"  and  I  pray  Heaven  that  the  last  part  of  your  life  may  be 
better  than  the  first." 

Then  she  turned  away,  leaving  him  more  wretched  than 
he  had  ever  thought  he  should  be  in  this  world  again. 


284  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

Ethel  hastened  home.  The  ordeal  she  had  dreaded 
was  over.  She  had  seen  her  husband  again,  had  spoken 
to  him,  and  she  began  to  see  some  glimmer  of  light  for  the 
future.  She  would  ask  him  to  go  away.  If  he  was  so 
poor  in  fortune  as  he  seemed  to  be  from  the  fact  of  his 
having  sought  the  situation  of  gamekeeper,  she  would  give 
him  money.  She  had  plenty  of  that ;  she  would  give  him 
enough  to  live  on  in  comfort,  provided  only  that  he  did  not 
come  near  her — that  he  kept  her  secret,  and  allowed  her 
to  live  in  peace.  If  he  would  do  that,  then  her  fate  would 
not  be  so  terrible  as  she  had  once  dreaded.  Then  she 
might  live  through  the  long  years  until  death  released  her 
or  released  him — without  happiness,  it  was  true,  but  with- 
out such  shame  and  sorrow  as  might  have  fallen  to  her 
lot. 

"  And  this,"  she  thought,  "  is  the  end  of  my  life — the 
life  that  I  once  filled  with  such  bright  visions,  with  such 
glowing  hopes  ;  the  end  of  it  all  is  hard-won  peace.  I  can 
ask  no  more." 

She  was  greatly  relieved.  She  had  dreaded  what  her 
husband  might  do — that  he  might  claim  her  as  his  wife — 
that  he  might  make  her  story  public — that  he  might  shame 
her  before  the  whole  world.  All  this  fear  was  ended  now. 
The  humbled,  sorrowful  man  who  had  knelt  at  her  feet  to 
implore  her  pardon  would  never  wrong  her  again.  More 
peace  came  to  her  than  had  been  hers  for  some  time. 
The  restless  face  grew  calmer,  the  shadowed  eyes  were 
bright. 

"  I  shall  come  to  the  end  of  my  troubles  soon,"  she 
thought,  "  and  then  I  shall  have  nothing  to  do  but  live  out 
my  life  in  patience,  thankful  to  have  escaped  a  worse 
fate." 

It  was  not  the  most  brilliant  end  to  a  life  that  had  once 
seemed  so  full  of  hope  ;  but  she  must  be  content. 

That  evening  another  shock  came  to  her.      During 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  283 

dinner  Lord  Leighton  said  that  on  the  morrow  he  ex* 
pected  a  distinguished  visitor—  a  brave  soldier  whose  name 
was  wreathed  in  laurels — a  traveller  whose  researches  were 
most  valuable.  He  turned  suddenly  to  Lord  St.  Norman. 

"  And,  if  I  remember  rightly,"  he  added,  "  my  visitor  is 
an  old  friend  of  yours.  He  does  not  know  that  you  are 
here,  so  it  will  be  an  additional  pleasure  to  him  to  meet 
you." 

"  Who  is  it !  "  asked  Lord  St.  Norman,  carelessly. 

But  the  carelessness  all  vanished  when  he  heard  the 
name. 

"  Sir  Oscar  Charlcote." 

He  looked  quickly  at  his  daughter.  She  had  heard 
it  too.  He  saw  the  color  die  out  of  her  face,  and  an  ex- 
pression of  startled  fear  come  over  it. 

"  Sir  Oscar,"  he  repeated,  slowly.  "  Ah,  yes  ;  he  is 
one  of  my  most  valued  friends.  But  I  understood  he  was 
in  Egypt.  Why  has  he  returned  to  England  ? " 

"  It  was  time  he  did,"  said  Lord  Leighton.  "  I  never 
could  understand  why  he  left  the  country.  We  want  such 
men  at  home.  He  is  returning,  I  believe,  because  the 
borough  of  Weston  is  vacant,  and  he  has  been  asked  to 
sit  for  it." 

"  He  will  go  into  Parliamrnt,  then  ?  I  am  glad  of 
that,"  said  Lord  St.  Norman.  He  was  wondering  in  his 
own  mind  what  Ethel  would  say,  and  how  she  would  like 
to  see  her  lover  again. 

"  Sir  Oscar  comes  to-morrow  morning,"  observed  Lord 
Leighton.  "  I  have  invited  several  people  to  meet  him  at 
dinner.  He  will  stay,  I  hope,  for  some  weeks.  He  is  a 
distant  relative  of  mine,  and  I  consider  that  I  have  the 
first  claim  upon  him." 

Then  some  one  asked  if  he  was  married.  Lord  Leigh- 
ton  laughingly  answered  no — that  Sir  Oscar  seemed  afraid 
of  ladies ;  he  had  never  heard  of  his  caring  for  one. 


286  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

Again  Lord  St.  Norman  stole  a  look  at  his  daughter — 
her  face  was  white  as  death.  He  tried  to  turn  the  conver- 
sation so  that  she  should  have  a  chance  to  recover  her- 
self. 

But  Ethel  could  not  for  some  time  get  over  the  shock. 
She  had  borne  her  sorrow  patiently,  believing  that  she 
should  never  see  Sir  Oscar  again.  Their  farewell,  she  be- 
lieved, had  been  for  all  time,  and  now  suddenly,  with  scant 
warning,  she  was  to  see  him  again. 

"  If  he  knew  I  was  here,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  I  am 
quite  sure  he  would  not  come." 

She  dreaded  meeting  him — dreaded  it,  yet  longed  for 
it  with  an  intense  desire. 

"  It  seems  like  cruel  irony,"  she  mused,  "  that  I  should 
meet  both  of  them  here — the  man  who  has  marred  and 
blighted  my  life,  and  the  man  whom  I  love.  If  I  had 
read  of  such  a  meeting  in  any  novel,  I  should  have  thought 
it  too  strange  even  to  be  true.  It  is  a  cruel  trick  of  for- 
tune." 

It  had  to  be  borne  ;  she  was  growing  accustomed  to 
silent,  brave  endurance.  She  said  to  herself  that  fear  and 
hope  alike  were  useless  ;  she  had  to  bear  her  lot,  and  there 
was  no  use  in  murmuring. 

Lady  St.  Norman,  looking  at  the  beautiful,  thoughtful 
face,  said, — 

"  Ethel,  shall  you  like  meeting  Sir  Oscar  again  ?  " 

"  It  cannot  be  helped,"  Ethel  replied,  evasively.  "It 
will  be  a  great  pleasure  to  papa,  I  know,  and  I  am  glad 
that  he  has  returned  to  England." 

"  He  is  not  married,  you  see,"  said  Lady  St.  Norman. 

"No,"  acknowledged  the  girl,  calmly;  "he  is  not  mar- 
ried, and  for  his  own  sake  I  am  inclined  to  think  it  is 
almost  a  misfortune  for  him," 


REPENTED  AT  LEISURE. 


287 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

THEY  met  once  more — the  two  who  had  parted  in  such 
sorrow  and  pain.  Ethel  happened  to  be  with  Lady  Leigh- 
ton  when  the  visitor  arrived.  She  could  not  hasten  away 
without  drawing  more  attention  to  herself  than  she  de- 
sired. She  saw  Sir  Oscar  before  he  had  time  to  notice 
her.  She  stilled  the  terrible  beating  of  her  heart,  the 
trembling  of  her  limbs. 

"  It  has  to  be  borne,"  she  said  to  herself ;  "  let  me  bear 
it  bravely." 

While  he  spoke  to  Lady  Leighton  she  looked  earnestly 
at  him.  He  was  greatly  changed  ;  the  face  that  she  re- 
membered as  so  bright  and  hopeful  was  careworn  and  sad. 
He  looked  like  a  man  who  had  passed  through  great  and 
bitter  trouble.  She  was  still  gazing  eagerly,  wistfully  at 
him,  when,  turning  suddenly,  he  saw  her. 

She  never  forgot  the  startled  shock  of  pain  that  came 
over  his  face  ;  and  he  was  like  a  man  who  had  received  a 
sudden  blow  and  could  hardly  recover  from  it.  With 
grave  courtesy  he  held  out  his  hand  in  greeting  to  her. 

She  made  her  escape  as  soon  as  possible.  The  pain 
of  meeting  him  again — of  meeting  him  so  coldly,  so  soberly 
-^was  greater  almost  than  the  pain  of  parting  had  been. 
She  wept  bitter  tears  over  it.  Of  course,  it  could  not  be 
otherwise  ;  they  had  parted  years  ago — they  were  to  be 
only  as  strangers.  But  she  could  not  endure  it — it  seemed 
harder  to  her  than  any  sorrow  she  had  borne.  She  said  to 
herself  that  she  would  ask  Lord  St.  Norman  to  leave 
Holmedale  ;  he  would  not  refuse  her — he  must  not  refuse 
her,  for  she  could  not  bear  her  present  trial. 


288  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

She  saw  but  little  of  Sir  Oscar  that  day :  they  met  at 
the  dinner  table,  but  he  was  next  to  Clarice  Leighton,  who 
was  trying  to  make  a  conquest  of  the  man  whom  all  other 
men  honored.  After  dinner  he  talked  again  to  Clarice, 
and  Ethel,  with  an  aching  heart,  sat  and  watched  him. 

They  were  parted.  Never  while  life  lasted  could  they 
be  anything  to  each  other.  They  were  to  be  strangers. 
Yet  she  could  not  bear  it.  She  sat  for  a  short  time,  and 
then  went  to  her  own  room.  Perhaps  that  night  was  the 
longest  and  saddest  that  Ethel  ever  passed. 

It  was  two  days  before  she  saw  Sir  Oscar  to  speak  to 
him  ;  and  then  she  was  in  the  conservatory  alone.  When  he 
entered  and  saw  her,  his  face  lighted  up  for  a  few  moments, 
and  then  the  careworn  expression  returned.  He  went 
over  to  her. 

"  Ethel,"  he  said,  gently,  "  I  have  been  longing  to  see 
you  alone.  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you.  Will  you  listen  to 
me  for  a  brief  while  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  that,  if  I  had  known  you  were  here, 
I  would  not  have  come.  I  would  not  have  given  either 
you  or  myself  the  pain  of  meeting  again — it  is  too  hard  to 
bear.  I  came  for  some  weeks,  but  I  shall  not  remain,  I 
shall  go  away  in  a  few  days." 

She  bowed  her  head,  but  made  no  answer. 

"  Ethel,"  he  continued,  hurriedly,  "  tell  me  one  thing. 
I  am  unchanged.  My  love  for  you  has  increased,  not 
lessened — it  is  the  greatest  happiness,  yet  the  greatest  tor- 
ment of  my  life.  If  I  repeated  my  question,  if  I  prayed 
you  again  to  be  my  wife,  what  would  your  answer  be  ?  " 

She  was  silent  for  some  short  time,  and  then  she  raised 
her  eyes  to  his  face. 

"  It  must  be  the  same  as  before,"-she  replied.  "  It  is 
not  more  possible  for  me  now  than  it  was  then  to  be  your 
wife." 


KE FAX-TED  AT  LEISURE. 


289 


"  I  feared  it ;  "  he  said,  sadly.  "  Ah,  me,  how  full  of 
sorrow  life  is,  Ethel  !  I  cannot  remain  here  and  bear  the 
torture  of  seeing  you,  knowing  that  you  can  never  be  mine. 
I  must  go.  There  can  be  no  pretext  of  friendship  for  us. 
I  hardly  dared  to  hope,  yet  my  second  disappointment  is 
harder  than  the  first." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  she  said  gently. 

"  I  know,  Ethel — I  know.  Would  to  Heaven  things 
could  have  been  otherwise  !  I  should  have " 

But  he  never  finished  the  sentence.  Lady  Leighton 
came  in,  and  he  could  say  no  more. 

Ethel  did  not  go  downstairs  again  that  day.  If  she 
could  have  had  her  own  way,  she  would  not  have  seen  him 
again — it  was  only  useless  pain. 

"  He  will  be  gone  soon,"  thought  the  desolate  girl  ; 
"  and  then  I  shall  suffer  no  more." 

Sir  Oscar  made  a  desperate  attempt  to  leave  Holmedale, 
but  Lord  Leighton  would  not  hear  of  it.  In  vain  the 
baronet  pleaded  pressure  of  business. 

"  You  promised  to  remain  several  weeks,"  said  Lord 
Leighton  ;  "  you  must,  at  least,  stay  for  one." 

Reluctantly  enough  he  complied.  "  It  will  soon  pass," 
he  thought  ;  "  and  I  will  take  care  that  I  do  not  see  her 
again." 

Three  days  elapsed,  and  then  Ethel  awoke  to  a  sense 
of  how  time  was  speeding.  She  had  to  meet  Laurie 
Carrington  on  the  morrow,  and  tell  him  what  she  had 
decided.  She  had  not  thought  much  of  the  matter,  but  the 
result  of  her  musing  was,  she  would  ask  him  to  go  away 
and  leave  her. 

She  had  decided  what  course  to  pursue.  She  was  ready 
to  meet  Laurie  Carrington — to  part  with  him — to  tell  him 
what  money  she  could  send  to  him  ;  it  was  all  settled  and 
arranged  in  her  own  mind.  She  was  ready,  too,  to  part 
with  Sir  Oscar — there  was  no  help  for  it  ;  and,  like  him 


290  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

self,  she  breathed  a  fervent  prayer  that  they  might  not 
meet  again. 

Dinner-time  came,  and  the  guests  were  all  assembled. 
Their  host,  however,  was  absent,  and  they  waited  some  little 
time  for  him.  Lord  Leighton  came  in  at  last.  He  look- 
ed pale  and  anxious.  He  made  some  hurried  apology  for 
his  absence,  and  then  they  went  in  to  dinner.  It  was 
half  over  when  Ethel  heard  one  gentleman  say  to  another, 
in  a  low  voice, — 

"  Have  you  heard  of  the  accident  ?  A  keeper  has 
been  shot  in  the  woods." 

Ethel  heard  the  words  ;  they  were  like  a  terrible  shock 
to  her — like  a  sudden  blow.  Presently  she  rallied  her- 
self. There  were  many  keepers.  How  could  she  tell 
which  one  had  been  shot  ? 

She  heard  Lord  Leighton  saying, — 

"  I  did  not  intend  to  mention  it  during  dinner ;  but  as 
you  have  already  heard  the  news,  I  may  say  it  is  quite 
true." 

One  of  the  keepers  shot  in  the  woods !     Some  one  of- 
fered Ethel  wine,  and  she  drank  it  mechanically. 

"  Which  of  the  men  was  it  ?  "  asked  a  gentleman. 

"  The  one  I  was  speaking  of  the  other  day — the  well- 
educated  one.  I  fancy  there  was  some  little  mystery 
about  him.  They  tell  me  that  after  he  was  shot  he  called 
incessantly  some  woman's  name." 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?  "  asked  another. 

"  Very  simply.  He  was  carrying  a  loaded  gun,  and  the 
trigger  caught  in  a  bush.  It  went  off,  and  shot  him  in  the 
lungs." 

"  My  cousin  was  shot  in  the  same  way,"  said  a  visitor. 
11  Is  the  poor  man  dead,  Lord  Leighton  ?  " 

"  No.  I  sent  for  all  the  doctors  far  ,and  near :  but 
though  they  do  not  quite  agree  as  to  the  mode  of  treat- 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  29 1 

ment,  they  tell  me  the  same  thing — he  has  not  twenty-four 
hours  to  live  !  " 

"  Has  he  all  that  he  requires  ?  "  asked  Lady  Leighton. 

"  Yes.  But  I  am  sure  there  is  a  mystery  about  the  man. 
He  has  lived  in  a  different  position — he  has  been  in  differ- 
ent circumstances.  He  has  tried  very  eagerly  to  say  some- 
thing to  me,  but  he  could  not." 

"  What  is  his  name  ? "  asked  Sir  Oscar  Charlcote  ;  and 
Lord  Leighton  replied, — 

"  His  name  is  John  Smith,  but  I  have  my  own  reasons 
for  thinking  that  it  is  only  assumed.  I  am  very  sorry  for 
him.  An  accident  of  that  kind  is  always  terrible." 

"  There  is  no  hope  for  him,  then  ? "  said  Sir  Oscar, 
pityingly. 

"  Not  the  least  in  the  world,"  was  the  reply.  "  He  may, 
he  will,  in  all  probability — rally,  but  it  will  not  be  for  long." 

There  was  a  sudden  cry,  a  sudden  commotion.  The 
beautiful  Miss  St.  Norman  had  fainted,  and  had  fallen 
from  her  seat  to  the  floor.  They  hastened  to  raise  her. 
Sir  Oscar  looked  at  the  death-like  face. 

"  It  is  the  heat  of  the  room,"  said  one. 

Another  suggested  that  it  was  owing  to  the  long  morn- 
ing's drive.  No  one  guessed  that  the  news  just  told  could 
have  any  interest  for  Lord  St.  Norman's  proud,  beautiful 
daughter. 

She  was  taken  to  her  room,  and  kindly  hands  tended 
her.  Lady  St.  Norman  did  not  leave  her  until  the  color 
had  returned  to  her  face,  and  she  was  able  to  sit  up.  Then 
Ethel  begged  that  she  might  be  left  alone. 

"  I  am  not  ill,"  she  said — "  believe  me,  Helen  ;  but  I 
am  tired,  and  I  would  so  much  rather  be  left  quite  alone." 

To  please  her,  Lady  St.  Norman  went  away,  and  Ethel 
was  left  to  her  thoughts.  They  were  all  chaos,  all  confu- 
sion. She  could  not  disentangle  them ;  she  could  only  re- 
member, as  she  sat  there,  that  Laurie,  who  had  been  a 


292  REPENETED  AT  LEISURE. 

forger  and  a  thief — Laurie,  who  had  married  her,  lay 
dying,  and  that  she  had  refused  to  pardon  him. 

Would  he  keep  their  secret  ?  or,  in  the  agony  of  death, 
would  he  reveal  it  ?  She  was  almost  indifferent ;  the  shock 
of  the  accident  was  so  terrible  to  her.  She  would  have 
parted  from  him  on  the  morrow ;  she  would  have  sent  him 
away  to  the  other  end  of  the  world,  never  to  see  him  again ; 
but  there  was  something  terrible  in  the  turn  which  things 
had  now  taken. 

As  she  sat  there,  some  one  gently  opened  the  door. 
Her  maid  entered,  bearing  in  her  hand  a  small  folded 
paper. 

"  Can  I  speak  to  you  for  a  moment,  miss  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  One  of  the  men  has  just  given  me  this.  The  keeper 
who  met  with  the  accident  this  morning  has  sent  it ;  and, 
thinking  it  may  be  about  money,  I  brought  it  to  you  at 
once." 

"  You  did  right,"  said  Ethel.  "  It  will  be  better  not  to 
mention  it ;  "  and  the  maid,  thinking  that  it  was  an  appli- 
cation for  money  made  by  the  sick  man,  not  only  prom- 
ised, but  kept  her  word. 

Ethel  opened  the  letter  eagerly — the  last  she  was  ever 
to  have  from  him.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  she  could 
decipher  the  words.  It  said  simply, — 

"  I  am  dying,  Ethel.  Dear,  I  cannot  die  without  your 
pardon — I  have  loved  you  too  much.  Come  to  me  for  a 
few  minutes  ;  stand  by  me,  look  at  me  with  your  calm  eyes, 
and  say,  '  I  forgive  you,  Laurie/  and  then  I  can  die  in 
peace.  If  you  refuse,  I  shall  not  find  rest,  even  in  my 
grave." 

He  was  a  criminal — he  had  blighted  her  life — he  had 
taken  from  her  all  hope  and  happiness  ;  but,  as  she  read, 
warm,  sweet  pity  rose  in  her  heart.  He  had  loved  her  so 
dearly,  and  he  was  dying. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  293 

"  I  will  go  to  him/'  she  said  to  herself.  "  He  shall  find 
rest  in  his  grave." 

The  night  was  growing  dark.     She  sent  for  her  maid. 

"  Lisette,"  she  said,  "  I  am  about  to  put  great  confi- 
dence in  you.  I  want  to  go  out,  and  no  one  must  know  it. 
I  shall  be  absent  some  short  time.  Will  you  sit  in  my  room 
here  and  wait  for  me,  and  let  me  in  when  I  return  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  at  her  with  clear,  honest  eyes. 

"  I  will  do  all  you  wish,  miss,"  she  replied  ;  "  no  one 
shall  know  that  you  are  out,  and  no  one  shall  enter  your 
room  while  you  are  away.  I  will  wait  for  you  ;  I  can  let 
you  in  by  one  of  the  side  doors.  I  will  get  the  key." 

Whatever  Lisette  may  have  thought,  she  said  nothing. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Ethel,  "  that  the  poor  man  who  was 
wounded  to-day,  lies  in  the  cottage  ? " 

"  Yes,  he  has  a  woman  from  the  village  to  nurse  him. 
If  you  are  going  out,  miss,  would  it  not  be  better  to  put  on 
a  large  cloak  and  a  thick  veil,  so  that  you  may  not  be  rec- 
ognized ? " 

Ethel  thought  the  suggestion  a  good  one.  She  had 
not  removed  the  rich  jewels,  nor  the  silk  dinner-dress  ; 
there  was  no  time  to  be  lost  in  changing  them  now.  She 
wrapped  herself  in  a  large  dark  travelling  cloak,  and  hid 
her  white,  beautiful  face  with  a  thick  veil. 

"  You  will  be  careful,"  she  said  to  Lisette ;  and  then, 
unperceived  and  unnoticed,  she  quitted  the  house. 

The  clock  over  the  stables  was  striking  ten  !  She  did 
not  feel  quite  sure  whether  she  knew  the  way  to  the  cot- 
tage, yet  it  could  not  be  very  far  distant  from  the  house, 
it  was  at  the  entrance  to  the  woods,  she  remembered,  and 
the  walk  to  the  woods  had  not  seemed  to  her  a  long  one. 
She  hurried  on.  Presently  the  deep  baying  of  a  hound 
startled  her.  She  said  to  herself, — 

"  I  must  not  lose  courage.  I  must  go.  He  is  dying  j 
I  must  see  him,  or  he  will  not  rest  in  his  grave." 


294  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

But  the  night  was  dark,  and  the  way  was  strange — she 
took  the  wrong  path.  She  grew  confused  and  frightened. 
More  than  once  she  fancied  that  she  heard  her  husband's 
voice  crying,  "Ethel,  Ethel!"  and  she  imagined  that  she 
saw  his  face,  all  white  and  cold  in  death,  floating  before 
her. 

"  It  is  only  a  fancy,"  she  said  to  herself ;  but  her  ner- 
vous fears  increased.  Every  whisper  of  wind,  every  rustle 
of  the  leaves,  thrilled  her  heart  with  a  new  and  strange 
fear.  She  was  confused,  frightened,  bewildered.  She 
stood  still,  hesitating  for  one  minute  whether  she  should 
cry  out  or  not ;  and  then,  to  her  infinite  relief,  she  saw  a 
tall  figure  just  before  her — the  figure  of  a  man,  He  was 
evidently  smoking,  for  the  fragrance  of  a  cigar  reached 
her.  It  was  wonderful  how  quickly  her  fears  were  dispelled. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  she  asked  herself.  "  Let  it  be  who  it 
may,  I  must  not  be  seen." 

She  turned  away,  hoping  not  to  be  seen ;  but  quick 
footsteps  followed  her,  and  presently  Sir  Oscar's  voice 
said,  calmly, — 

"  Ethel,  I  know  you.  I  saw  you  some  minutes  since, 
and  came  to  meet  you.  I  should  have  recognized  your  figure 
and  your  walk  anywhere.  You  could  never  hide  yourself 
from  me." 

She  stood  quite  still  at  the  first  sound  of  his  voice  ;  all 
her  strength  seemed  to  desert  her. 

"  I  came  out,  as  I  do  every  night,"  he  said,  "  to  smoke 
a  cigar.  The  night  is  so  calm  and  sweet  and  still  that  I 
have  wandered  farther  than  I  intended.  But  you,  Ethel, 
— what  are  you  doing  in  the  woods  alone  at  this  hour  of 
night  ? " 

"  You  must  not  ask  me,"  she  replied,  faintly. 

"  But  I  shall  do  so,  Ethel.  Your  voice  is  faint,  your 
hands  are  cold,  and  your  face — your  beautiful  face — is  so 
white,  dear  !  You  are  in  trouble.  Let  me  help  you." 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  295 

It  was  a  great  relief  to  her ;  the  kind  words  and  the 
sympathizing  voice  were  so  welcome  that  she  broke  down. 
She  clung  to  his  strong  arm,  and  wept  aloud. 

"Ethel,  my  darling,"  he  said,  "you  are  in  trouble. 
Trust  me  ;  let  me  help  you.  What  is  love  worth  if  the 
one  who  loves  cannot  be  trusted  ?  I  will  keep  all  you 
say  to  me  as  sacred  as  though  it  were  my  own  secret, 
and  my  life  depended  on  it.  Trust  me,  Ethel." 

She  stood  silent  for  a  few  minutes  while  the  night  wind 
moaned  around  her,  and  the  great  branches  of  the  trees 
swayed  above  her.  What  ought  she  to  do>  If  she  re- 
fused to  trust  him,  then  he  would  not  let  her  go  any  farther, 
and  poor  Laurie — Laurie  who  had  loved  her  so  dearly — 
must  die  without  her  pardon.  If  she  wished  to  see  him, 
she  must  trust  Sir  Oscar,  and  if  she  trusted  him,  and  told 
him  all,  then  he  would  never  love  her  again — she  would 
lose  his  respect  and  esteem  with  his  love. 

"  I  must  see  Laurie,"  she  thought.  "  Living,  I  might 
hate  him  ;  dying,  I  must  forgive  him." 

"  Ethel,"  said  Sir  Oscar,  "  try  to  think  that  I  am  your 
brother.  If  you  had  a  brother  of  your  own,  you  know  how 
you  would  trust  him.  Do  the  same  with  me." 

"  You  will  never  like  me  again,"  she  confessed.  "  You 
will  despise  me." 

"  I  shall  love  you  until  I  die,  Ethel.  Only  trust  me, 
try  me,  prove  me.  Is  your  walk  connected  with  that  same 
secret  which  stands  between  me  and  my  love." 

"  Yes,"  she  replied.  "  Oh,  Oscar,  whether  you  love 
me  or  not,  I  cannot  help  it  now  !  I  must  tell  you  all." 

Her  beautiful  head  bent  in  unutterable  shame,  her  face 
wet  with  dropping  tears,  she  told  the  story  of  her  folly  of 
so  long  ago — the  secret,  hurried  marriage  which  had  been 
the  bane  of  her  life.  She  did  not  omit  one  detail.  She 
told  him  the  bitter  truth  in  all  its  nakedness.  He  listened 
n  surprise  that  was  too  great  for  words. 


296  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

"  My  poor  child,"  he  said,  gently,  when  she  had  finished 
— "  my  poor  Ethel,  how  terribly  you  have  suffered  !  And 
that  man  is  your  husband — yours  ?  It  seems  incredible," 

Then  she  remembered  how  time  was  passing,  and  that 
Laurie  Carrington  wished  to  die  in  peace. 

"  He  is  dying,  Oscar,"  she  said,  "  and  I  must  see  him. 
Will  you — it  seems  strange  to  ask  you — will  you  take  me 
to  him ! " 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  you  do  right  to  go,  Ethel.  If  he 
were  well  I  should  be  one  of  the  first  to  punish  him  for  his 
cowardly  villany — for  his  mean  wicked  sin ;  dying,  I,  like 
you,  must  pardon  him.  I  will  take  you,  so  that  I  may  stand 
as  a  shield  between  you  and  all  harm.  Oh,  Ethel,  my 
poor  child,  how  terribly  you  have  suffered ! " 

Even  he  could  not  conceive  it  all  ;  no  one  but  herself 
could  ever  know  what  those  years  of  hidden  anguish  had 
been  like. 

He  took  her  hand  silently  in  his. 

"  This  is  the  nearest  way  to  the  cottage,"  he  said. 
"  Ethel,  it  will  be  better  for  the  world  not  to  know  about 
this  matter.  There  will  be  people  with  the  poor  man — 
nurses  and  attendants.  How  can  I  best  screen  you  from 
their  observation  ? " 

"  I  leave  all  to  you,"  she  returned  ;  and  from  her  heart 
there  rose  to  Heaven  a  great  cry  of  thanksgiving  that  he 
was  there  to  help  her. 

"  I  will  send  every  one  from  his  room,"  he  said,  "  and 
then  they  will  think  you  are  a  friend  of  his.  Even  should 
it  happen  that  they  mention  that  a  lady  has  been,  it  will 
be  thought  that  some  lady  from  the  great  house  has  paid 
him  a  visit  of  compassion.  See  there — among  the  trees — 
that  is  the  cottage.  Why,  Ethel,  I  remember  reading  the 
story  of  young  Carrington — and  a  very  sad  story  I  thought 
it  was.  How  little  I  dreamed,  my  darling,  that  it  con- 
cerned you ! " 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  297 

In  another  minute  they  stood  at  the  door  of  the  cottage  ; 
from  one  of  the  upper  windows  came  a  faint  glimmer  of 
light.  Sir  Oscar  rapped  gently  at  the  door.  It  was  opened 
by  one  of  the  keepers — a  stranger  whom  Ethel  did  not 
recognize. 

"  How  is  the  poor  man  ?  "  asked  Sir  Oscar. 

"  Dying  slowly,  sir ;  he  will  not  last  until  the  sun  rises." 

"  Is  he  conscious  ?  Is  he  able  to  speak  ? "  inquired 
Sir  Oscar. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  he  has  been  praying,  and  he  is  now  crying 
some  woman's  name — a  strange  name,  that  I  have  never 
heard  before.  The  nurse  seemed  timid,  so  I  offered  to 
remain  with  her." 

"  That  was  good  and  kind  of  you.  We  have  come  to 
see  him.  We  can  go  upstairs,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  the  nurse  only  is  with  him." 

Ethel  stood  by  in  silence ;  it  was  a  great  relief  to  her  to 
find  that  the  man  did  not  think  their  coming  strange — on  the 
contrary,  he  seemed  rather  to  expect  it. 

"  I  thought  some  one  would  come  from  the  hall  to 
night,"  he  said ;  and  Sir  Oscar  slipped  a  golden  fee  into 
his  hand.  He  held  the  light  while  they  went  up  the  steep, 
narrow  stairs. 

"  Ethel,  Ethel,"  they  heard  a  faint  voice  crying,  "one 
word— only  one  word  !  " 

She  turned  faint  and  cold  when  she  heard  the  sound  of 
her  own  name  and  the  tone  of  appeal  in  which  it  was  ut- 
tered ;  she  trembled  so  violently  that  it  was  with  difficulty 
she  could  mount  the  stairs. 

"  Ethel,  Ethel !  "  the  voice  repeated—"  only  one  word !" 

Sir  Oscar  turned  anxiously  to  her, 

"  Do  you  think  you  can  bear  it  ?  "  he  asked. 

"I  must,  "  she  replied. 

They  heard  the  voice  of  the  nurse  trying  to   comfort 


298  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

him,  but  from  him  there  came  no  other  words  but  those 
which  they  had  just  heard. 

Just  before  he  opened  the  doot,  Sir  Oscar  turned  to 
her  again. 

"  You  are  trembling,  Ethel ;  it  will  be  better  not  to  go 
in.  I  am  anxious  about  you." 

But  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face  with  a  look  of  trust 
which  he  never  forgot. 

"  I  shall  have  no  fear,"  she  said,  "  if  you  remain  with 
me." 

Then  he  opened  the  door,  and  they  entered  the  room 
together. 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  299 


CHAPTER  XLV. 


THERE  was  nothing  terrible  in  the  scene  that  met  the 
eyes  of  Ethel  and  Sir  Oscar  Charlcote  when  they  had  en- 
tered the  room  in  the  keeper's  cottage.  The  apartment 
was  small,  square,  and  scrupulously  clean ;  the  bed  was  at 
the  end  near  the  window,  and  on  it  lay  the  dying  man. 
His  face  lighted  up  with  a  gleam  of  recognition  as  he  saw 
the  veiled  figure  of  a  lady  standing  near. 

Sir  Oscar  never  lost  his  presence  of  mind.  He  turned 
to  the  nurse. 

"  We  are  come  to  see  your  patient,  and  to  remain  with 
him  for  a  short  time/'  he  said.  "  Will  you  go  and  rest  ?  " 

"  I  will  go  downstairs  and  get  myself  some  tea,  sir," 
she  replied ;  and  the  next  moment  she  had  left  the  room. 

Then  the  dying  man  held  out  his  hands  to  Ethel. 

"  Ethel,"  he  said,  feebly,  "  you  are  come  at  last ! " 

He  had  committed  a  felony,  he  had  blighted  her  life, 
he  had  been  vilely  selfish  and  cruelly  mean ;  but  he  had 
loved  her  passionately,  and  he  lay  lying.  She  knelt  down 
by  his  bedside,  and  took  his  hands  in  hers. 

"Take  away  your  veil,"  he  said,  "  that  I  may  look  my 
last  on  the  face  that  is  all  the  world  to  me." 

She  did  not  remove  her  hands.  Sir  Oscar  unfastened 
the  thick  veil ;  it  fell  with  the  dark  cloak  to  the  ground, 
leaving  her  shining  jewels  and  silken  dress  uncovered. 
The  dying  man  looked  at  her  with  a  faint,  wandering  smile. 

"  You  are  come  to  me  in  all  your  bravery  of  jewels  and 
dress,  my  queen,"  he  said.  "  My  beautiful  queen,  I  only 
deserve  that  you  should  hate  me,  yet  you  let  me  hold  your 
hands  in  mine.7' 


300 


REPENTED  AT  LEISURE. 


"  I  do  not  hate  you,"  she  corrected,  gently. 

"  Thank  Heaven  for  that !  I  am  dying,  Ethel — my  short, 
ungracious  life  is  nearly  ended.  My  sins  and  follies  are 
all  over.  Ah  !  my  queen,  listen  to  me  for  a  few  moments 
— bend  your  beautiful  face  lower — so — I  cannot  speak 
clearly.  Ethel,  listen.  I  was  not  always  bad.  I  began 
life  with  all  good  intentions,  all  great,  grand,  and  generous 
hopes.  I  was  young,  happy,  gallant,  gay.  Oh,  for  my  lost 
youth,  my  lost  life  !  " 

He  broke  out  into  a  low,  feeble  wailing,  most  pitiful  to 
hear. 

"  My  lost  life — oh,  Ethel,  if  I  might  but  live  it  over 
again — if  I  might  but  have  time  to  redeem  it !  Believe 
me,  dear,  wretched  outcast  though  I  am  now,  I  was  young 
rich,  and  happy  once.  Once  I  was  worthy  of  your  love — 
now  I  am  deserving  of  your  hate." 

She  bent  her  beautiful  face  over  his,  and  whispered  to 
him  that  Heaven  was  merciful.  Her  tears  fell  warm  and 
fast  upon  his  face. 

"  I  wish,"  he  said  faintly,  "  that  I  could  speak  with  a 
voice  that  all  the  world  might  hear — that  I  might  make  my 
fatal  story  a  warning." 

Then  he  murmured  some  words  that  she  could  not  dis- 
tinguish. 

"  Ethel,"  he  cried,  in  a  loud,  clear  voice,  "  I  am  stand- 
ing on  the  brink  of  a  deep,  dark  river ;  it  is  rolling  so 
swiftly  on  !  White  faces  look  at  me  from  the  waters  as 
they  pass  by,  and  the  river  is  rising  ;  the  dark  waters  will 
cover  me  soon.  Hark,  how  the  waters  rush  !  " 

She  told  him  it  was  only  the  sound  of  the  wind  among 
the  trees — the  great,  tall  trees  in  the  woods.  He  wandered 
again 

"  The  wood,  the  little  gate  by  the  wood,  and  Ethel,  my 
wife,  standing  there  with  the  passion-flowers  in  her  hand ! 
Ethel,  my  wife,  standing  where  the  changing  light  from  the 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  301 

stained  glass  window  falls  on  her,  and  one  great  gleam  is 
blood-red  !  Ethel,  Ethel,  my  fair  young  wife  !  " 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  brow  and  whispered  gentle 
words  to  soothe  him. 

"  It  is  rushing  on,  Ethel,  the  dark,  swift,  silent  river — 
it  will  take  me  away.  Tell  me  you  forgive  me." 

He  held  her  hands  tightly  clasped,  he  looked  in  her 
face  with  an  appealing  expression  she  never  forgot. 

"  Of  all  the  wrong  I  have  done,"  he  said,  "  the  cruelest 
was  to  you.  It  was  the  most  selfish  and  cruel  deed  any 
man  could  have  done  to  cloud  that  sweet  young  life  of 
yours.  Ethel,  I  remember  when  your  voice  was  all  sun- 
shine, and  your  beautiful  lips  all  smiles.  I  remember  when 
your  voice  was  all  music  ;  and  when  I  saw  you  again,  my 
queen,  so  terribly  changed,  I  knew  what  I  had  done.  Ethel ! 
oh,  if  the  rush  of  that  dark  water  would  but  stop !  It 
drowns  my  voice  and  it  drowns  yours.  Ethel,  say  you  for- 
give me — utter  my  name  once  more  ;  I  have  not  heard  it 
for  years." 

"  Laurie,  I  forgive  you,"  she  said,  gently — "  I  forgive 
you  the  wrong  you  did  me  and  your  cruel  deceit.  I  for. 
give  you,  as  I  pray  Heaven  to  pardon  me  for  my  folly  and 
pride.  From  the  very  depths  of  my  heart  I  say,  Heaven 
have  mercy  on  you  !  "  and  then  she  stopped,  for  he  was 
weeping  like  a  child. 

"  Ethel,"  he  begged,  "  when  I  am  dead,  remember  how 
I  loved  you.  You  have  been  the  one  star  of  my  life.  Try 
to  forget  how  wicked  and  worthless  I  was — only  remember 
my  great,  deep,  passionate  love ;  say  to  yourself,  '  Poor 
Laurie — poor,  faulty,  erring  Laurie — how  he  loved  me  !  * 
There  is  a  long  life  before  you,  my  queen,  and  the  grass 
will  soon  be  growing  green  over  my  grave.  Let  my  great 
love  plead  for  me ;  think  what  I  suffered  on  my  wedding- 
day  when  they  took  me  away.  Ethel,  grant  me  one  favor. 
You  see  that  small  box  ? " 


302 


REPENTED  AT  LEISURE. 


He  pointed  as  he  spoke  to  a  small,  plain,  deal  box,  se- 
curely fastened  with  a  lock  and  key. 

"  I  never  thought  to  die  near  you,"  he  continued  ;  "  I 
never  hoped  to  die  with  your  dear  hands  in  mine.  Ethel, 
I  am  powerless  to  move  ;  will  you  take  the  key  that  hangs 
round  my  neck  and  unlock  that  box  ?  " 

She  removed  a  silken  string  from  his  neck,  and  with 
the  key  attached  to  it  unlocked  the  box.  It  held  nothing 
but  a  few  faded  flowers,  so  withered,  so  faded,  she  did  not 
recognize  them.  She  carried  them  to  him,  and  wondered 
at  his  wild  weeping  when  he  saw  them. 

"  They  have  been  to  prison  with  me,'*  he  said,  "  they 
have  been  over  the  seas  with  me  ;  the  hardest  officials  that 
opened  that  little  box  to  see  what  it  contained  closed  it 
quickly  again,  and  said  nothing.  I  have  kissed  it  when  all 
the  diamonds,  all  the  wealth  of  this  world  would  have  been 
valueless.  I  have  prized  it  as  kings  do  their  crowns — as 
misers  their  gold.  Do  you  know  what  the  contents  are, 
Ethel  ? " 

She  looked  at  the  withered,  faded,  dried-up  leaves. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  gently,  "  I  do  not." 

"  They  are  the  passion-flowers  that  you  held  in  your 
hand  as  a  bridal  bouquet  on  the  morning  we  were  married, 
Ethel ;  they  are  not  more  faded  or  dead  than  my  hopes." 

As  he  spoke,  the  whole  scene  with  its  surroundings  rose 
vividly  before  her — the  sweet,  dewy,  summer  morning,  the 
church,  with  its  stained  glass  windows,  the  altar  where 
she  had  stood  in  the  varying  lights,  the  passion-flowers  that 
she  had  gathered  all  shining  with  dew.  She  remembered 
how  he  had  taken  them  from  her. 

"  They  were  suitable  flowers  for  you,  Ethel,"  he  said, 
sadly.  "  I  remember  how  grieved  I  felt  at  the  time,  how 
the  sight  of  them  filled  me  with  dismay ;  but  they  were  well 
chosen — they  were  tokens  of  what  was  to  follow.  Roses 
would  have  been  unfitting  for  my  bride.  Oh,  Ethel,  they 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  303 

they  are  not  so  dead  or  so  faded,  dear,  as  my  hopes.  You 
will  see  that  they  are  buried  with  me.  Promise,  Ethel." 

"  I  promise,"  she  replied,  but  her  voice  was  almost  in- 
audible. 

Then  he  seemed  suddenly  to  become  aware  of  Sir  Os- 
car's presence.  He  looked  at  him  long  and  earnestly. 

"  Ethel,"  he  said,  "  place  those  poor  dead  flowers  on 
my  breast,  and  let  me  hold  your  hands  in  mine.  It  is  only 
for  a  few  short  minutes,  dear.  The  river  is  rising  and  I 
am  sinking.  You  told  me  that  I  had  blighted  your  life— 
— that  you  loved  some  one  from  whom  you  had  been  obliged 
to  part  This  is  a  noble,  fearless  face — the  face  of  a  good 
and  noble  man.  Is  it  he  whom  you  love,  Ethel  ? " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied— I  loved  him  and  parted  from  him." 

"  I  am  glad  that  he  is  here." 

He  turned  his  dying  face  to  Sir  Oscar. 

"I  am  glad  that  you  have  come,"  he  said.  " Your 
presence  will  shield  Ethel  from  all  harm,  from  all  comment. 
May  I  say  something  to  you  ?  She,  my  poor  young  wife, 
is  free  from  all  blame.  The  lilies  in  the  field  are  not  purer 
than  she  is.  It  was  all  my  fault — all  mine.  I  saw  her, 
and  she  was  so  beautiful  that  I  loved  her  at  once  with  a 
love  that  has  lasted  my  life,  and  will  end  only  with  my  death. 
I  tempted  her.  I  saw  that  she  was  proud,  and  on  her 
wounded  pride,  her  wounded  love,  I  played  skilfully. 
Ethel  never  loved  me.  I  flattered  her,  I  studied  every 
weakness  of  her  character,  and  made  them  all  subservient 
to  my  designs.  I  bear  witness  here  on  my  deathbed  that 
she  was  not  in  the  least  to  blame — that  no  taint  or  suspicion 
of  wrong  could  be  attached  to  her — that  I  sinned 
against  her.  I  deceived  her.  She  was  young,  simple,  in- 
nocent as  a  child,  and  I  worked  upon  her  through  her 
faults,  and  tempted  her  through  her  pride,  I  did  her  so 
great  a  wrong  in  marrying  her  that  I  deserved  the  bitterest, 


304  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

punishment,  and  I  have  had  it.  You  will  not  let  Ethel  suf- 
fer for  my  sin  ?  " 

Sir  Oscar  bent  over  him,  with  kindliest  pity  on  his  face. 

"  I  believe  you,"  he  said  earnestly.  "  I  am  sure  that 
the  fair,  sweet  girl  we  have  both  loved  is  free  from  blame. 
It  will  make  your  death-bed  happier  if  I  tell  you  something 
else.  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  make  the  remainder  of  her 
life  happy.  I  will  give  her  the  greatest  love — the  greatest 
reverence.  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  make  her  forget  the  ter- 
rible past.  You  may  trust  me  ;  we  will  respect  your  mem- 
ory, and  I  will  do  what  you  most  desire — make  her  happy." 

A  light  more  tender  and  beautiful  than  they  had  seen 
before  came  over  Laurie  Carrington's  face.  He  raised 
Sir  Oscar's  hand  to  his  lips. 

"  May  heaven  bless  you  ! "  he  said.  "  You  are  a  noble 
man.  You  are  a  noble  man,"  he  repeated  faintly,  "  and  I 
am  glad  that  she  will  be  happy.  There  is  no  more  jealousy 
or  envy  left  in  me ;  it  is  all  dead.  I  shall  die  the 
more  easily  for  knowing  what  I  do.  Life  is  sweet  to  us  all, 
but  I  am  pleased  that  I  can  die  and  leave  her  free." 

Then  his  hand  relaxed  its  hold. 

"  Ethel,  Ethel !  "  he  cried,  "  the  river  runs  on  so  swiftly 
and  so  dark — it  is  here-r-up  to  my  lips.  Will  you  bend 
down  and  kiss  my  face  once,  only  once  before  I  die,  for 
my  great  love's  sake  ?  " 

She  looked  up  at  Sir  Oscar. 

"  Shall  I  do  what  he  wishes  ?  "her eyes  seemed  to  ask. 

He  answered  her  gravely. 

"  Yes,  it  is  for  the  last  time,  Ethel." 

She  laid  her  fresh,  warm  lips  on  his,  already  so  cold  and 
numb. 

"  My  beautiful  queen,"  he  murmured,  "  my  heart's 
love  !  Oh,  Ethel,  Ethel,  hold  me  !  The  water  is  here— it 
is  overwhelming  me  !  " 

Then  the  feeble  grasp  relaxed,  the  head  fell  back,  he 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  305 

had  fallen  into  the  dark  river  that  was  to  bear  him  to  the 
eternal  shores. 

"  He  is  dead,  Ethel,"  said  Sir  Oscar,  gently  :  "  let  me 
take  you  away  now,  dear." 

Of  her  own  accord  she  bent  over  him  again  and  kissed 
the  cold  brow — he  had  loved  her  so  dearly.  She  laid  the 
withered  flowers  on  his  breast,  and  then  turned  awav. 

"  Good-by,  Laurie  !  "  she  said,  while  the  tears  fell  trom 
her  eyes — "  good-by  ! " 

She  left  him  then,  silent  in  death,  with  a  smile  on  his 
lips,  and  the  faded  passion-flowers  on  his  breast. 

In  a  few  words  Sir  Oscar  told  the  nurse  what  had  hap- 
pened, She  did  not  evince  the  least  surprise. 

"  My  only  wonder  is,"  she  said,  "  that  he  has  lasted  so 
long.  It  seemed  to  me  as  though  he  could  not  die." 

Then  Sir  Oscar  drew  Ethel's  arm  within  his  own. 

"  We  must  hasten  home,  my  darling,"  he  said,  "  you 
are  cold  and  tired." 

She  wept  silently  as  they  went  home  in  the  silence  of 
the  night  together.  When  the  towers  of  the  hall  appeared 
in  sight,  she  turned  to  him. 

"  How  am  I  to  thank  you,  Sir  Oscar  ? "  she  said. 
"  What  should  I  have  done  without  you  ?  " 

"  I  want  no  thanks,  Ethel,"  he  replied  ;  "  I  am  only  too 
happy  that  in  the  hour  of  your  distress  I  was  by  your  side." 

Once  more  she  stood  alone  in  her  room.  Lisette  had 
been  most  faithful ;  no  one  knew  of  her  mistress'  absence, 
and  she  was  there  to  open  the  door.  She  looked  wonder- 
ingly  at  the  beautiful  white  face  before  her. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  walked  too  far,  miss,"  she  said ; 
"  you  seem  quite  exhausted." 

"  I  am  very  tired,"  acknowledged  Ethel.  "  But  I  need 
not  keep  you  any  longer." 

The  maid  went  away,  and  she  was  left  alone.  She 
did  not  stop  to  remove,  the  jewels,  nor  to  take  off  the  silken 


306  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

dress.  She  lay  down  on  the  pretty  white  bed,  exhausted 
beyond  the  power  of  words  to  tell. 

It  was  all  over  at  last ;  the  strain  of  long  years,  the  tor- 
ture of  silence  and  suspense,  the  terrible  secret,  the  weight 
of  which  had  been  greater  than  she  could  bear — it  was  all 
ended.  Laurie  Carrington,  the  man  she  had  married,  the 
man  whom  for  long  years  she  had  dreaded,  lay  dead. 
There  was  no  more  to  fear  from  him.  He  could  injure  her 
no  more,  and  the  secret  of  his  folly  would  be  buried  with 
him. 

She  was  free.  She  felt  like  one  who  had  been  for  years 
in  a  dark  prison,  and  suddenly  finds  himself  in  the  broad 
open  light  of  day.  She  could  only  repeat  to  herself  over 
and  over  again  that  her  long  torture  was  ended — that  she 
was  free. 

For  the  first  time  since  that  terrible  day  at  St.  Ina's 
she  slept  a  long,  dreamless  sleep — the  sleep  of  exhaustion 
— and  the  rest  was  so  deep  and  so  sweet  that  she  was  almost 
sorry  when  the  light  of  day  awoke  her.  It  was  a  rest  so 
sweet  she  would  fain  have  slept  on.  It  was  so  new  and 
strange  to  awake  without  deadly  fear  as  her  companion, 
without  dreading  what  the  day  might  bring  forth.  A  new 
sensation  of  life  came  over  her.  The  tortures  of  shame 
and  sorrow,  the  long  hopeless  despair,  were  ended  at  last 
— she  was  free. 

She  did  not  leave  her  room  that  day.  It  was  a  respite. 
She  wanted  to  calm  her  thoughts,  to  still  the  tumult  of 
heart  and  soul  before  she  met  people  again.  Lady  St. 
Norman  advised  rest.  It  would  quite  restore  her,  she  said, 
the  fainting  fit  that  had  alarmed  them  was  caused,  no 
doubt,  by  over-fatigue. 

When  she  came  downstairs  on  the  following  day,  Sir 
Oscar  was  the  first  person  she  saw. 

"  Are  you  better,  Ethel  ?  "  he  said.  "  I  have  been  very 
anxious  about  you." 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  307 

A  faint  flush  brightened  her  face.  It  was  new  and 
sweet  to  be  cared  for  by  him. 

"  I  am  quite  well,"  she  replied ;  and  she  was  both 
pleased  and  touched  to  notice  how,  from  the  distance  as  it 
were,  he  seemed  to  watch  over  her.  He  said  little  to  her? 
and  that  pleased  her  best,  while  her  heart  was  filled  with 
memories  of  the  dead  man. 

She  was  tried  almost  past  her  strength  that  evening, 
when  she  heard  Lord  Leighton  tell  how  he  had  heard  from 
the  nurse  that  some  of  his  own  friends  had  been  to  see  the 
dying  man. 

"  They  told  me  also,"  he  continued,  "  that  on  his  breast 
was  found  a  bunch  of  faded  flowers.  I  know  nothing  of 
him,  but  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  the  clue  to  the  mys- 
tery of  the  man's  life  lay  in  those  faded  flowers." 

He  was  buried  in  the  churchyard  at  Holme,  and  Sir 
Oscar  Charlcote  said  he  would  place  a  tombstone  over  the 
grave.  Years  afterward,  when  Ethel  went  to  see  it,  she 
was  touched  to  find  that  passion-flowers  grew  round  it. 

She  never  forgot  the  morning  of  Laurie  Carrington's 
funeral — a  beautiful  summer  morning,  when  the  sun 
shone  and  nature  wore  its  brightest  garb.  Several  of  the 
servants  from  the  park  attended,  and  some  of  the  visitors 
went  also. 

"  Ethel,"  said  Sir  Oscar,  "  would  you  wish  to  go  to  the 
funeral  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  replied.     "  I  had  not  decided." 

"  If  you  would  wish  to  go,  I  will  make  it  easy  for  you, 
by  asking  you  to  go  with  me. 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face  with  that  look  of  im- 
plicit trust  which  always  touched  him  so  deeply. 

"  I  will  do  whatever  you  think  is  right,"  she  said. 

"  Then  I  should  say — go.  It  is  the  last  and  only  mark 
of  respect  you  can  pay  him.  Go,  Ethel,  it  is  the  right  thing 
to  do." 


308  REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 

She  went.  He  made  it  easy  for  her,  as  he  said,  by 
making  his  request  during  breakfast  in  the  presence  of  Lady 
St.  Norman,  who,  looking  at  the  beautiful,  sorrowing  face, 
added  kindly, — 

"  Go,  rny  dear.  The  walk  in  the  sunshine  will  do  you 
good." 

So,  while  the  sun  poured  down  his  warmth  and  light, 
while  the  summer  wind  made  sweet  music  in  the  trees, 
while  the  birds  sang  and  the  flowers  bloomed,  they  laid 
poor,  erring,  guilty  Laurie  Carrington  in  his  grave  ;  and 
of  all  those  who,  from  sympathy  or  kindness  attended  the 
ceremony,  there  was  not  one  who  suspected  that  the  proud, 
beautiful,  sorrowful  Ethel  was  the  dead  man's  wife. 

Two  days  afterward  Sir  Oscar  said  to  Ethel, — 

"  I  am  going  away,  Ethel.  I  know  that  you,  as  well 
as  myself,  would  wish  to  pay  all  due  respect  to  the  memory 
of  the  dead.  I  will  visit  Norman's  Keep  in  six  months' 
time,  if  you  are  there  ;  and  then,  my  darling,  if,  for  the 
third  time,  I  ask  you  to  be  my  wife,  what  will  your  answer 
be?" 

"  It  will  be  '  yes,'  "  she  replied,  and  he  went  away 
happy  and  content. 

That  same  evening  Lord  St.  Norman  said  to  his  wife  : 

"  Helen,  do  you  perceive  any  difference  in  Ethel  ?  " 

Helen  laughed. 

"  Yes  ;  and  I  venture  to  prophesy  that  after  all  Ethel 
will  be  Lady  Charlcote,"  she  said.  "  Sir  Oscar  looks  too 
happy  for  the  state  of  his  affairs  to  be  unprosperous." 

"  I  was  astonished  at  her  to-day,"  observed  Lord  St. 
Norman.  "  She  looked  bright,  beautiful,  and  wilful  as 
the  Ethel  of  old.  She  gave  me  the  idea  of  one  who  has  had 
a  cloud  over  her  life,  and  suddenly  sees  it  drifting  it  away." 

And  for  the  first  time  for  many  years  Lord  St.  Norman 
took  courage  about  his  beautiful  Ethel 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE.  309 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

THERE  was  a  chime  of  wedding-bells,  sweet  and  low, 
with  a  strain  of  plaintive  music  ever  and  anon  recurring 
in  the  jubilant  sound — wedding-bells  from  the  church  of 
the  little  town  of  St.  Normans  where  Ethel  was  married. 

She  had  wondered  why  she  wished  the  wedding  to  be 
so  quiet — why  she  almost  prayed  them  to  let  her  be  married 
in  the  silence  of  the  early  morning,  without  ceremony  ;  but 
Lord  St.  Norman  would  not  consent. 

"  My  only  daughter,"  he  said,  "  about  to  be  married 
to  a  man  whom  I  think  a  hero,  to  desire  a  quiet  marriage 
— I  could  not  agree  to  it.  The  traditions  of  the  Gordons 
forbid  it." 

So  the  marriage  was  grand  and  magnificent  Honored 
guests,  both  rich  and  poor,  were  bidden  to  the  feast. 

Once  more  Ethel  stood  before  the  altar.  This  time 
she  carried  no  passion-flowers  in  her  hand — no  crimson 
gleam  from  stained-glass  windows  fell  over  her.  Her  hus- 
band's heart  gloried  in  her  beauty,  and  on  her  fair  face 
there  was  no  shadow  of  the  past. 

People  said  afterward  that  it  was  the  most  beautiful 
wedding  they  had  ever  seen,  for  it  was  all  flowers.  Look 
where  the  spectators  would,  there  was  nothing  but  flowers. 
They  said  also  that  so  fair  a  bride  had  never  been  seen. 
The  wedding  veil  fell  in  graceful  folds  to  her  feet,  the 
wreath  of  orange  flowers  crowned  her  like  a  queen,  and  the 
face  that  shone  beneath  the  veil  was  most  exquisite  with 
its  dainty  flush  and  tender  light.  Children  strewed  flowers 
beneath  her  feet  :  people  wished  the  newly-married  joy  ; 
the  wedding- bells  chimed  merrily  j  the  air  seemed  filled 
with  sunlight  and  music. 


3io 


REPENTED  A  T  LEISURE. 


Lord  St.  Norman  held  his  daughter  in  his  arms  as  he 
bade  her  good-by. 

"  You  will  be  very  happy,  Ethel,"  he  said.  "  You  have 
married  a  hero — and  I  many  tell  you  now  that  the  dearest 
wish  of  my  heart  has  been  accomplished." 

The  baronet  and  his  wife  went  to  Fountayne  for  their 
honeymoon. 

*  *  *  *  *  # 

There  is  not  a  more  beautiful  or  popular  woman  in  her 
county  than  Ethel,  Lady  Charlcote ;  fair  children  are 
blooming  around  her,  brave  young  sons  and  lovely  daugh- 
ters rise  up  and  call  her  blessed.  But,  in  the  midst  of  all 
her  triumphs — of  her  tender  love  for  husband  and  children, 
of  the  homage  that  is  her  portion — of  the  honor  that  is  her 
due — in  the  midst  of  it  all  she  preserves  the  greatest 
humility  of  heart,  remembering  the  folly  of  her  youth, 
and  how  terribly  she  suffered  for  it. 

Loving,  beloved,  happy,  and  honored,  Ethel,  Lady 
Charlcote,  lives  in  the  present.  Her  husband's  heart  re- 
joices in  her.  She  takes  her  fair-haired  children  on  her 
knee,  and  tells  them  the  virtue  dearest  to  Heaven  is 
humility,  and  that  the  sin  that  brings  keenest,  swiftest, 
surest  punishment  is  pride. 


THE  END 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


vr?n  r'/v 

JAN  2  ±1968 

LD21A-45m-9,'67                               ,  .  Ge«?nU;  f-jJ>r,?f     . 
(H5067slO)476B                              University  of  California 

